


Mary Sue Saves the Galaxy

by JesBelle



Category: Galaxy Quest (1999), Galaxy Quest (TV)
Genre: (duh), (sort of), ADHD, Age Difference, Amnesia, Armageddon Prevention, Bisexual Characters, Brand-Name Dropping, But if it's a squick you may want to skip, Canon Compliant, Childhood Sexual Experiences, Convenient Travel Times, Cooking and Eating Scenes, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Depression, Dirty Talk, Disabled Character, Drug Addiction, Escapism, Even the Big Bad, Everybody Lives, Everybody is a grown-ass adult, Evil Villain is Evil, Extremely Mild D/s Dynamics, Fellatio, Femslash, File This Under:, Firsts, Food, Forced Pregnancy, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Frottage, Gay Characters, Genocide, Getting Together, HIV/AIDS, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Heterosexual Characters with Kinks, Historical, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I mean we all know Fred is into those tentacles right?, I'm bad at Mary Sues, Isn't that a song from the musical Hair?, It comes up a lot, It's not quite what you think, It's not some other thing I don't know about?, Like Fingering and... Tentacling?, Mary Sue, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Holocaust, Mild body image issues, Mirror Sex, Misogyny, Most of the sex is F/M, Mpreg, Multi, Mutual Pining, Narratively Expedient Technology, Never Enough Beds, Nobody has an unhealthy relationship with it, Okay Mary Sue isn't keen on some veggies but you know what I mean, POV First Person, Past Abuse, Past Physical Violation, Past Rape/Non-con, Penis In Vagina Sex, Polyamorous Characters, Possibly Troublesome Stuff:, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Preposterous Alien Cultures, Pretty sure that's a song from Grease, Recreational Drug Use, Regular Pining, Romance, Roommates, Science Fiction, Sexy Stuff:, She doesn't always get the best lines, Slash, Songfic, Sorry if that squicks you, Teasing, Tentacles, There's a lot less tentacles than you hope/fear, These are age-appropriate and not described in detail, Things I Forgot to Tag Before:, This is when you watch yourself fuck in a mirror right?, This takes place in the 80's/90's so it gets mentioned a few times, Time Travel, Tropes:, Troublesome Stuff:, Trying to expand myself as a writer and all that jazz, Underage Drinking, Yeah I got yer tropes, Yes even more troublesome than mpreg, butt stuff, fandom drama, heights, long chapters, mentions of nazis, seriously download this thing to your e-reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-10-26 05:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 237,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17740163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JesBelle/pseuds/JesBelle
Summary: Journey with fic-writer, M(edium)NF, and chronic rarepair shipper, Mary Sue Forrester, through those thrilling days of yesteryear (the Eighties and Nineties) as she saves her favorite TV show, her own life, and (if Fred Kwan's new girlfriend is to be believed) the entire galaxy armed with nothing more than a knapsack full of cash, an alien-augmented Palm PDA, and a handful of the sorts of items that frighteningly over-prepared women always seem to be toting around in their bags.





	1. Prologue -- 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the people who beta'd this thing in whole or in part -- Seth for being my Margot in the earlier chapters, CjtheShort for assuring me that my not-quite-Spones romance didn't suck, and Patrick for reading and proofreading the whole damn thing. And thanks to everyone on Discord who encouraged me along the way.
> 
> A note about canon -- This fic is based on the 1999 movie _Galaxy Quest_ and that's really all the canon you need in order to understand the story. However, if you hate your eyes or wish to indulge in a little GeoCities-esque nostalgia, you can check out [Travis Latke's Galaxy Quest Page](http://web.archive.org/web/20000819162953/http://www.galaxyquest.com/galaxyquest/). Most of the episodes described in this story came from there, along with the (far less tortuous) [Galaxy Quest Wiki](http://galaxyquest.wikia.com/wiki/Galaxy_Quest_Wiki). This [E! Mocumentary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WjT0KWn6T7I) was another source. Several comic books were also written but those cost money, so I didn't include them as canon. 
> 
> Another note about Fraught Subjects -- While I seem to be incapable of writing more than 2k words without bringing up a Dark Thing, I mostly don't dwell on them. If a certain chapter has something in it that might be Objectionable, I will mention it at the top of the chapter and give more details at the end if you want to check it out before you read. Also, feel free to message me on Tumblr or Pillowfort if you want to know more. That said, Laliari is going to tell our heroine just how bad the Big Bad is right here, in the prologue. She won't go into detail, but if you remember her description of Sarris in the movie, it's a lot like that.
> 
> And one last note -- I'll be posting all of Mary Sue's fanfic as stand-alone stories under the pseud, Thalia Z.

I’m standing in a living room in the Hollywood Hills. It’s April, 1979. I have a souped-up Palm PDA, 6,000 dollars in cash, and I’m wearing a brown jumpsuit. In front of me is Frank Ross, the creator of the TV show _Galaxy Quest_. I need to convince him that I’m from the future.

I have two things going for me — Frank is ready to believe, and I just materialized right in front of him in a swirl of golden light.

He’s an easy sell.

I’m elated. This is going to be smooth sailing, I think.

Famous last words of me and the captain of the _Lusitania_.

  


Maybe I should back up a bit and start from the beginning?

Actually, that _was_ the beginning. If one were to read the series in chronological order, so to speak, that _is_ the first event. And Margot always said to start with a good “How did that happen?” moment. Materializing in someone’s living room in 1979 certainly qualifies. But what about just before that moment? How _did_ that happen? Well, just before that moment (for me anyway) was 20 years later in a hotel/convention center just outside of L.A..

That part starts with Fred Kwan.

I’ve known Fred for 20 years. Don’t worry, I’m not going whip through time again (yet). I’ll put a pin in it. You just need to know that, while I’ve never had him pop up unexpectedly in my supposedly empty hotel room, it’s surprising, not alarming, and I don’t hesitate to simply drag my little wheelie suitcase in behind me, shut the door, and ask what’s up. I mean, I’ve been smoking pot on L.A. rooftops with Fred for years.

I’m immediately assaulted — hug-attacked by a tall woman with a perfect pageboy haircut, wearing a Lycra jumpsuit, which is weird, even for Quest Con. I mean, not the Lycra jumpsuit — you see those all over the place — the strange woman hugging me part. Also, most people wait until con has officially started to do cosplay.

She’s willowy. That’s the best word to describe her — slender and supple. I’m not used to beautiful, willowy women throwing themselves into my arms. She smells good too. So that’s a bit disconcerting, and probably why it takes me a minute to notice the Time Jump Accelerator from the TV show _Time Tripper_. I mean, it’s only the size and shape of an airport metal detector.

She takes a small step back and grasps my upper arms. She’s smiling, and her eyes are doing sparkly things at me and she says, “You are the liar!”

“Um, storyteller, honey,” says Fred.

Honey?

“Storyteller,” she repeats, still smiling and still sparkling.

I mean, it’s pretty much the same thing. Most people won’t come right out and say it though.

“Yeah,” says Fred. “Mary Sue, this is Laliari — my um, my girlfriend. You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”

Girlfriend?

“Yeah, a little,” I say. “In fact, I’m sort of wondering why I’m here.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” says Fred. “I changed your room to a single.”

“I see,” I say. “Why?”

“I uh, think that’ll be clear in a second,” he says.

Laliari lets go of me and puts her arm around Fred’s waist. She smiles and sparkles at him. He smiles and gives her the old soft eyes back. They’re just cute as hell in each others’ general direction, in other words.

It gives me the warm fuzzies.

“I’ve been explaining to Laliari that you’re a writer,” says Fred.

That gives me even warmer and fuzzier fuzzies. I love being called a writer.

Even though I almost always try to deny it immediately.

“Oh, not really,” I say. “Just fanfic.”

“You write great stories, Mary Sue.” Awwwww. “And we need your help.”

I read once that people respond more positively to someone asking for a favor than to someone doing them a favor.

I’m certainly a sucker for it every time.

“What can I do?” I ask, because it’s Fred, and because Laliari keeps smiling at me, and because I still haven’t gotten over the shock of finding them in my hotel room (How did they even get in here?). Big chunks of my brain are still working on other things is what I’m saying.

“We need you to repair this timeline, or we will all die,” says Laliari, looking very serious for a moment, before turning the high-beams back on.

“Uhhhhh,” I say.

“Look,” says Fred. “This is all going to sound crazy, but you need to believe us. Laliari isn’t Human. She’s an alien — a Thermian.” He turns to Laliari and squeezes her hand. “It’s okay, honey. You can trust Mary Sue.”

Which is always a nice thing to hear about yourself, but let’s face it, I could write a complete account of what’s about to happen and publish it on the Internet, and nobody would believe a word of it.

Laliari touches a device on her belt. The tall, willowy, Lycra-clad woman disappears, and there’s a somewhat shorter, purple tentacle-monster in her place.

I make some sort of aborted scream-type noise and jump. Literally. Both feet leave the floor. I didn’t know that people actually do that, and I’m easily startled.

Fred is still holding one of the tentacles in one hand while stroking it soothingly with the other. Honestly, I feel like I’m the one who needs comforting in this situation, but maybe I’m reading it wrong. I mean, Fred’s chill about it, but Fred’s always chill about it, whatever “it” is. Possibly because he’s composed of about 40 percent cannabis at this point.

But, hey, this is Fred’s girlfriend, and I really am very fond of Fred. This relationship obviously makes him almost absurdly happy. The least I can do is give the girl a chance. (At least, I think she’s a girl. I don’t know. Thermians could have 50 genders or none at all. I never asked.)

So I take a good look at her. In addition to the tentacles — some of which she uses to get around, and some of which she uses to manipulate objects — she has a big, dome-shaped head, light blue eyes with barbell-shaped pupils like a goat’s, and some little tubes growing out of the region of her neck (if she had a neck, which she doesn’t). Her face ends in two shorter tentacles that are sort of wriggling about agitatedly. Maybe she really is as nervous about this as I am. Her skin is pretty — mottled shades of mauve and purple — and it glistens slightly in the light. I wonder if it’s moist or just reflective.

I reach out my hand, and she reaches out a tentacle. We touch. We grasp... limbs. Her skin is reflective.

Laliari lets go of my hand and pokes something in the region of her middle. There’s a little flash of light from the device and she’s back in her willowy form.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m listening.”

It turns out the Thermians are an advanced race — in most ways. They seem to have almost zero imagination, but they are great with technology. They’re so good with it, in fact, that they’ve managed to create the tech from some of our fictional TV shows, which they regard as recordings of actual events. It seems that they have been picking up signals from a TV station (KBHR — Alaska’s biggest little station!) through a wormhole of some kind. _Galaxy Quest_ in particular has given them hope during the terrible war they’ve been losing against a sadist named Sarris.

So they just up and built their own  _Protector_.

Then they came to Earth and picked up Fred, along with Jason Nesmith, Gwen Demarco, Tommy Weber, and of course, Alexander Dane. (Although how they managed to find Dane at a con, I’ll never know. I’ve been to a dozen of the things, and never saw anything but a glimpse of him at a signing table.) Then they took them “out there” to help them fight Sarris. Well, by now you know the story, right? With a few minor changes, it’s pretty much the premier of the revived show. The minor changes being that everything is actually real, and they definitely leave out the tentacles.

But at this point in my story, none of that has actually happened yet. And it might never happen because it turns out that Sarris had friends. (Has friends? Ugh. Trust me when I tell you that time travel is something you do _not_ want to think about too hard.) And one of those friends is mucking around with time, altering events so as to prevent the Thermians from succeeding.

“His name is Nng-ggggg-kfff,” says Laliari. I ask her to spell that. It’s Ngh’f. “He’s a war criminal and Sarris’s mentor. The atrocities he committed were so vile that he was banished to an empty parallel universe rather than allowed the release of death. His ability to affect events in this universe is extremely limited. We believe that Ngh’f sent an agent to tamper with the historical documents.”

“Tamper how?” I ask.

“The props and the sets are all different,” says Fred. “There’s changes to the scripts too. It’s little things, but they add up to the Thermians not being able to build a working _Protector_.”

“Wait…” I hold up a hand. I need them to be quiet for a minute so that I can chase down the logic here.

“You’re coming from the future to tell me this?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Fred.

“If the past was changed in what? 1979?”

“Yes,” says Fred.

“How do you know that the past was changed at all? Wouldn’t you remember the changed past, not the original one?” I ask.

“My former commander received intelligence that an inter-universal message had been intercepted,” says Laliari. “It contained some of the instructions that Ngh’f’s minion was to follow.  We traveled to the _Protector_ immediately via interstellar pods. The Time Jump Accelerator is kept in a room that has been shielded against timeline corruption since the Fatu-Krey obtained the plans for the Accelerator several months ago. We were in the room, making plans to counteract this attack, when the timeline changed. According to the ship’s computer, the _Protector_ was in its dock and unable to function. When we reviewed the historical documents, we discovered the discrepancies, as they had been recorded outside of the room.”

Okay, that scans… I think. “So where do I come in?”

“I think you’re the best person to go back in time and fix it,” says Fred.

“ _Me?!?_ ” I audibly interrobang.

“The time machine that the Thermians have built is the one from _Time Tripper_. It works on those rules,” explains Fred. “That means that whoever does this needs to be someone who really knows _Galaxy Quest_ , but who wasn’t involved in its production in any way.”

Right. So you’ve probably seen _Time Tripper_. This hyper-intelligent dude builds a time machine, and decides to test it on himself because he’s too noble for his own good. Or maybe that’s just an excuse because he’s terrible at delegating tasks. Anyway, he can only travel back as far as the day he was born. He can’t kill or seriously harm anyone in the past (nor would he want to, because he’s very freaking noble), and he can’t save anyone’s life (which he would like to because of the aforementioned being so noble). Once he’s again demonstrated his nobility and made everything right, he disappears in a swirl of golden light.

But he can’t interact with anyone who knew him when he was in his correct time. (The anti-do-I-know-you? clause.) So Fred can’t go. Neither can anyone who worked on the show. Neither can Laliari, not that she would be a great candidate for anything other than ending up in Area 51.

It’s Fred’s turn to do the upper-arm grasp on me. He looks me in the eyes.

“You’re perfect for this, Mary Sue. You’re a _Galaxy Quest_ wonk. You were a Theater major, and I know you did backstage work for a few years. You’ll fit right in on the set. And you’re smart.”

Smart enough to know that my chances of success don’t sound too great.

“I don’t know, Fred.”

“This is your chance to be a hero, to have the kind of adventure you’ve written about.”

I shake my head. “’Written about,’ Fred, not ‘want to run right out and have.’”

Truthfully, I’ve built a pretty nice life for myself — a cute apartment, a decent wardrobe, a cat, three very sweet and affectionate boyfriends (Well, two anyway. I’m not sure what’s up with Trent these days.), and the luxury of no longer running from one financial emergency to another. If there was ever a time that I dreamed of doing Big Things, it was years and years ago.

Fred shakes _his_ head. “I’ve known you forever, Mary Sue. You’re still waiting for your story to happen.”

I can feel my facial muscles twisting themselves into an expression that says, “Am I? Am I, _really_?”

“Look,” says Fred, “you’re the one, Mary Sue. You’re the best hope for saving the galaxy.”

Fred Kwan is an underrated actor. Don’t let anyone tell you the man can’t deliver a line.

“The galaxy? The whole galaxy?”

“Roth’h’ar Sarris is evil,” says Laliari. “He has far surpassed his master, Ngh’f. He has killed, tortured, and enslaved billions. Because of him, the Fatu-Krey now rule most of the 23rd Quadrant, but without him, the Dominion cannot hold. Already the demands on their resources are near the tipping point. Without Sarris to conquer new worlds for them, their rule will collapse. Commander Taggart and his crew didn’t just save my people, they saved the inhabitants of a thousand other worlds, as well.”

“But we can’t do that without a perfectly functioning _Protector_ ,” says Fred. “And for that, we need _you_.”

“God fucking _dammit_ , Fred.”

He grins. He knows they’ve won.

“Okay, what’s the plan?” I ask, hoping like hell that there’s actually a plan.

“I have loaded this with the specifications of the _Protector_ , and a timeline of Earth events for 1976-1981, as well as an outline of the events Sarge— Fred related to you,” says Laliari, holding up what appears to be a brand new Palm IIIc. She stuffs it into a small, dark blue knapsack, along with an after-market charging cable. That’s good. The cradle it came with would just be bulky, and I won’t be finding any computers that can talk to it anyway. She puts in a folding keyboard too, and a weird wrap-around device with a lens on it. “This is a camera attachment. It is similar to one that your people are currently working on but haven’t released yet. The instructions are on the hand-held device.”

“The Time Jump Accelerator has been programmed to drop you right in front of Frank Ross in April of 1979,” says Fred. “He’s… well, he’s kind of a dreamer, you know? Or he was in those days. I won’t say he’s naïve — he isn’t — but he believes in some pretty remote possibilities like time travel and alien contact and stuff.”

Laliari sort of… ululates? I think it’s her way of laughing. From the look she gives Fred, I’d say at least one alien is keen to make some contact.

“Well, yeah,” says Fred. I think he’s blushing slightly. “Anyway, he won’t be hard to convince, and he can make sure you’re where you need to be.”

Laliari takes my hand. “I need a sample of your blood,” she says. She pokes my finger with one of those lancets that people use to check their blood sugar and whatnot. Then she swipes my finger down the front of the knapsack. The smear of blood glows blue-green for a moment, then disappears.

“This portable storage container is now keyed to your DNA. Even if you are separated from it, it will always travel back with you,” she says.

“So keep anything important in there,” I reply.

She nods, smiling. “Yes.”

She shows me a pair of glasses in a case. “These should work to both correct your vision and allow you to see the true form of anyone wearing an appearance generator.”

God, they’re ugly, and nearly identical to the pair I actually wore in 1979 — giant lenses, curved bows, the whole nine yards.

“Thanks,” I say, taking them.

I unzip my suitcase and rummage through it.

Side note: I hate anything tight or binding. My wardrobe mostly consists of those skimmy, spaghetti-strap dresses in varying lengths, which I wear with a t-shirt underneath and a pair of leggings when the dress is short — or those slinky-knit skirts and a tank top, also with a t-shirt underneath because I don’t shave my pits and I get tired of hearing about it. That actually describes my current outfit to a T(shirt). I’m pretty sure I’ll look like a nut wearing her nightgown over long underwear back in 1979.

Okay, but I have one of those palazzo-pants jumpsuits. Nothing says “future!” like a jumpsuit, right? Even if said jumpsuit is brown with little ivory flowers? It’ll have to do. I set it aside. I pull out the one pair of jeans I’d brought in case I got asked to get my hands dirty. They’re carpenter-style, but carpentry was surely a thing that occurred in the ‘70’s. I add a t-shirt to the pile along with all of the socks and underwear I’ve brought. I look at the knapsack and subtract all of the socks but one pair. I’m going to need to get more clothes later. Earlier? Whatever.

Laliari packs three bundles of twenties into the knapsack. Yeah, that should do, I think. I hope they’re either real or really good fakes.

I dig through my suitcase some more.

“So, how do we know that this Ngh’f is our bad guy?” I ask as I dig. I pronounce it “engkef.” I’m not breaking my tongue to be culturally sensitive to some guy who’s trying to murder an entire sapient species.

“The message that we intercepted was being beamed to a Fatu-Krey known as Gath’gor the Unkind,” Laliari replied. “Just as Ngh’f was Sarris’s master, Sarris is Gath’gor’s. Gath’gor is wanted for murder on 148 different planets and the Star Council has charged him with war crimes. He and Sarris met long ago when Sarris was briefly imprisoned on Tepsis. It is said that Gath’gor saved Sarris’s life there and now Sarris returns the favor by keeping Gath’gor in his protection.”

That’s a lot of murder. You’d think he would’ve graduated to Gath’gor the Antisocial by now.

I nod and set some more items aside — my menstrual cup, a large bottle of ibuprofen, (I’m positive you needed a prescription for that in 1979.) a travel-size deodorant, my toothbrush, a little makeup, my multi-tool, a sewing kit in an Altoids tin — you get the picture.

“And that’s all going down less than 72 hours from now?” I ask. According to _Time Tripper_ , the tripper can’t contact anyone they know in the past, unless they are tripping three days or less from the time they entered the Accelerator. I strongly suspect there’s no other reason for this than narrative expediency (They had an episode where Dr. Ionesco saves his lab assistant from bringing home a bio-engineered disease that makes his whole family get amnesia and forget him and each other. It’s a real tear-jerker. The actor who played the lab assistant won an Emmy.), but the Thermians build stuff the way they see it, and Fred is obviously here and talking to me, so there we are.

Fred nods. “The Thermians will contact Jason after the opening this afternoon.”

Laliari hands me the knapsack. I stuff my pile in. There’s a tiny bit of room left, so I add my bullet vibrator in its drawstring bag as well. Better safe than horny, I figure. I may be gone awhile.

I go into the bathroom to change. After going through the contortions necessary to get the jumpsuit zipped up the back, I check my hair. Still too long for fashion, but the one time I had short hair I hated it. I hated bangs when I tried those too. My hair is dark brown and it’s been going grey for years now. Right now I have some temporary henna-red color in it, though. That’s going to look weird in 1979. But being weird in L.A. is normal.

I keep my earrings — little silver Balinese-style hoops, but I lose about five of the eight silver rings I’m wearing.

All that primping, unfortunately, gives me more time to contemplate the logistics of time travel. When I come out of the bathroom, I have a whole new set of questions.

“Why don’t you guys just travel back to wherever Gath’gor is getting into his time machine and stop him?” I ask.

“It’s too far away,” says Laliari. “The other Accelerator is being kept on G’lixxkar, in the heart of the Dominion’s territory. The Accelerators require a great deal of power to move people over distance. On board the _Protector_ , we had access to the power supplied by the beryllium sphere, which was enough to transport us here, but the Fatu-Kray use magnoplasma power plants. Those can generate far more energy.

“What are you using for power here?”

“That.” Fred points to the power cord running from the base of the Accelerator to the wall socket. “You’ll only be able to travel to a location in L.A.,” he says.

Well, okay then.

“You said that Gath’gor is wanted by many long arms of the law. Can’t you just call one of them and explain that he’s in L.A. in 1979?”

“We would have to explain that the Fatu’Krey have time travel technology, and where they got it,” says Laliari. “Developing such technologies is against inter-galactic treaty.”

“But you did it anyway?”

“We did not develop the technology -- you did. We only built the device. However, I doubt that the other worlds of the Council would see it that way.”

“Likely to take a dim view of it?”

“I’m afraid so,” she says.

Which just leaves the old Send Mary Sue Back In Time option, doesn’t it?

“If you guys got into the Accelerator on the _Protector_ , how is it here?” I ask as I step into my brown Dexters which are in no way futuristic, but I have those and a pair of chunky sandals and some black dress flats to choose from and the Dexters seem like the most practical choice.

“It’s Laliari’s item,” replies Fred. “It’s keyed to her DNA.”

“But if I succeed at solving my problem, then you’ll have succeeded at solving your problem. Won’t you just disappear into the golden light and end up right back in this room?”

“Theoretically,” says Laliari, “since we would return to the instant we left, we would be back aboard the _Protector_ with the Accelerator.”

“But, if that happens while I’m returning to the instant I left, wouldn’t I end up on the _Protector_ with you?” Not that being on the actual _Protector_ wouldn’t be the most amazing thing ever.

“Theoretically, the Accelerator will return you here before our task is considered complete,” says Laliari.

Theoretically.

I put my oh-so-stylish, wire-framed glasses in the case and put on the gigantic, face-covering pair. I look at Laliari. She is both a willowy, slightly-off Human and a tentacled alien.

I pick up my knapsack and shove the glasses case in. No doubt I’ll think of another 50 questions while I’m gone, just to keep my anxiety levels at a nice even eight out of ten.

“Welp, ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, making an attempt to look cheerful.

Laliari makes her sparkly face and hugs me again.

Fred kisses my cheek and says, “Good luck, Mary Sue.”

“I’ll do my best, Fred.”

“No one can ask for more.”

I walk into the Accelerator and am immediately surrounded by golden light and way more wind than is probably necessary. At the last moment, I put my hand over my eyes.

If Frank Ross is sitting around his living room naked, I don’t want to see it.


	2. Quest Con One -- 1980

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we ignore the main story in favor of back story and fanfiction within fanfiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some underage drinking.

Remember how I put a pin in the subject of Fred Kwan and how we’d met? Let’s just unpin that, shall we?

I have five photographs taken by Fred at various cons throughout the years. If you’re a rabid Questie, (or “Questerian,” if you want to pretend like that will make the mundanes take you seriously) then you know that Fred Kwan is a talented photographer. His black and white photos from cons were featured in an _Entertainment Weekly_ special on _Galaxy Quest_. He’s been in a bunch of photography magazines too.

Anyway, he’s taken my picture five times at Quest Con, and he’s sent me a copy each time. The photos are in their own custom frame on the wall near my computer desk.

The first photograph is from Quest Con 1, in 1980. Five women are squeezed together on one of those high-backed, curved booth seats they sometimes have at bars and restaurants.

From left to right, we have:

Mi-Na Larson — My best friend from high school. She’s wearing a cowl neck sweater, and her long black hair is feathered. She was Connie in those days, but she goes by her Korean name now.

Mary Sue Forrester — Your humble narrator. I have on one of those silky blouses with a big floppy tie at the neck and glasses with lenses so large I could have just used one of them to see through if my eyes hadn’t needed different prescriptions. I have my brown hair mostly up with lots of tendrils hanging down, and I have bangs. It’s very clear that I’m trying to look like Bailey from _WKRP in Cincinnati_ — with middling success. Connie and I are both 17, but I’m pretending that I’m 19.

Cecelia “Cece” Fleischer — Fanfic writer by night, computer programmer by day. Cece writes beautiful (and very erotic) poetry about her favorite pairings. She publishes a zine called _Galactic Love_ , and she’s one of the con’s organizers. Cece is also sporting the cowl neck sweater, (They were very big in 1980.) but favors a somewhat tighter fit than Connie. She looks like a red-headed Ali McGraw. Cece is 24.

Margot Kellerman — Margot writes sweet, tender love stories about Taggart and Lazarus finally admitting that they have feelings for each other, usually after one of them helps the other with some emotionally devastating event. Then they make sweet, tender love. She signs her own full name to them. She’s wearing a low-cut blouse under a green velvet blazer. She has one of those immobile poofy hairdos, and it’s very blond. I’m not 100% sure it’s not a wig. Margot is 56 and an editor.

Shondra Law — Shondra is an artist. She works under three different names. As Lanie Mills, she does illustrations for a series of children’s books about anthropomorphic farm animals. As Chanel V., she draws explicit fanart, mainly of Dr. Lazarus. (She has quite the imagination when it comes to depicting alien anatomy.) Under her own name, she paints huge, gorgeous, detailed canvasses of fairy tale scenes with Black characters. She’s dressed to the nines in a sheer flowy thing over a slinky minidress. She has a short afro. She says it used to be long, but she cut it this year because it was hell to take care of. Shondra is 32.

These ladies — I’d just met them this weekend and I loved them already.

We met at a zine exchange. Cece’s the one who got us all together, of course, because she’s Cece. _Galactic Love_ featured a gorgeous cover by Shondra as well as one of Margot’s stories. Connie and I had a zine too, the bulk of which was a short story by yours truly.

Making a zine was Connie’s idea. Her dad owned a print shop in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In those days, most small businesses couldn’t afford to have things like Xerox machines or binding equipment of their own, so they had their stuff printed up by outfits like Connie’s dad’s. We had access to a color photocopier and one of those extra-long staplers is what I’m saying. We had access to better stuff too, but the Powers That Be kind of preferred it if your zine didn’t look too professional, and Mr. Larson was only cool with us printing the zine as long as we paid for supplies.

What we didn’t have was access to a ton of material. Connie managed to talk one of her brother’s friends into contributing a rather nice portrait of Cmdr. Taggart, and got one of the members of our fan club to let us use this really funny series of ficlets she’d written that were just Dr. Lazarus complaining in his private log about living with Humans. And that, along with my piece, was pretty much the sum total of the one and only issue of _Galactic Adventures_ ever printed. (The word “galactic” tends to feature heavily in _Galaxy Quest_ zines.)

I wish I could tell you that they’re collectors’ items now.

Anyway, Connie decided that if we had a zine to take to Quest Con, we might be able to offset our meager mad money by selling or trading them. She even offered to type up my story. That was a given. Until word processors became a thing that actual people had, I couldn’t produce an error-free page to save my life.

She was not happy when I only gave her the first half of the story. She begged and wheedled me mercilessly for the sex scene, but I put my foot down. I was not letting her publish my porn, even under a pseudonym. I was sure that I could go to jail for writing porn while underage. As it was, I lied about my age at Quest Con because I was sure that just the implication that sex was going to happen could get me into trouble.

But none of this explains how I met Fred, does it?

Well, on the last night of con, Cece said we should all go hang out in the hotel’s lounge, so we did. The hotel brochure mentioned that the lounge was 18+ only without a guardian, but everyone thought I was 19 and Margot was fully prepared to claim Connie as her own darling daughter.

Nobody batted an eye as we entered.

We had a big pile of zines with us so that we could see who had what, and we were making out a list of our addresses so that we could send each other copies of what we didn’t have as well as stuff we’d written (or drawn, in Shondra’s case). The more controversial titles were hiding under the general fiction.

The waitress came over and asked for our orders. Cece, Margot, and Shondra all ordered mixed drinks with names like Manhattan and Harvey Wallbanger. Connie got a Coke. And I blanked. On the one hand I was supposed to be 19, and on the other, my driver’s license said I was 17. Also, I’m from Michigan.

In case you’re wondering why that threw a monkey wrench into my calculations, it’s because of the 26th Amendment.

See, before 1971, some states had a higher voting age. The 26th made it 18 across the board. For some reason, a bunch of states figured that meant the drinking age should be 18 as well. Michigan was one of them. Now in 1978, Michigan raised it back up to 21. None of this really affected me beyond the mild disappointment that I had to wait longer than I thought I would to buy liquor, but I was also aware that Michigan was the first state to raise its drinking age back up.

So there I was in a bar in a state where I’m sure it’s legal for a 19-year-old to drink. Everyone else who could was drinking. I’m a total lightweight, and I didn’t have a fake ID.

I asked the waitress what they had that’s kind of light — “…it’s been a long day and I don’t want to get sleepy.” I figured if she suggested a soft drink, that meant she knows I’m too young. If she offered alcohol, that meant she’s cool with me drinking. I’m so very fucking clever.

“How about a wine spritzer?” asked the waitress. I’m sure there’s a huge mark-up on wine spritzers, but at the time I thought half white wine/half soda and it sounds kind of sophisticated — perfect.

So I had a wine spritzer.

And there I was — a kid who’s terrified of being arrested for porn, underage drinking in a bar in Los Angeles.

And the drinking age in California was never lowered from 21.

And there was actual smut on the table.

Anywho — I was having a ball. I had my best friend with me, and we were laughing and I was pretending (quite successfully, I thought) to be sophisticated in my Bailey cosplay with my wine spritzer, and I traded dirty jokes with these genuinely sophisticated ladies whom I adored. A door in my mind had been opened because I honestly hadn’t known until that weekend that sex or fandom could be lifelong interests. They could even be lifelong _pursuits_. If I played my cards right, I too could unabashedly continue to have a life outside of being a wife and mother — something that I had been explicitly told was completely incompatible with feminine adulthood.

I was practically floating.

Then I heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, is this the zine that has that story about Tawny saving Targathia?”

It was Fred Kwan, and he was pointing to _Galactic Adventures_. My _Galactic Adventures_ , with my story.

“Hey Fred!” said Cece. “Yeah, that’s the one. Mary Sue here wrote it, and Connie,” she pointed over my head at Connie, “made the zine.”

Cece knew Fred Kwan. Of course she did. She was Cece. She’d also just announced that I was the author of a story with tongue-kissing in it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Connie. Mary Sue.” He shook our hands. I was mildly freaking out.

“Margot, Shondra, and I were just comparing our collections with theirs to make sure everybody gets their share of literature to see them through the season break,” said Cece.

He shook hands with everybody. “Hey, Margot. Shondra. That’s quite a haul you’ve got there.”

Margot and Shondra squeezed in a bit, making room for Fred. He took the offered spot. I know that seems strange — celebrities just deciding to hang out with their fans in a hotel lounge, but it was a different time. John Lennon hadn’t been shot on his front doorstep. What happened to Rebecca Schaeffer and Selena hadn’t happened yet. And _Galaxy Quest_ wasn’t such a phenomenon. I’m not kidding when I say that there were maaaybe 100 people there for the convention.

Fred picked up one of the zines from the middle of the pile. It had a drawing of Lazarus and Taggart in a front-to-front clinch, and yet it still managed to show both of their butts. It was an artistic triumph.

I’m pretty sure my heart rate doubled. What would Fred think of this? You’re really not supposed to let anyone connected to the show see the smut — especially this kind of smut. Cece looked relaxed though, and that calmed me down a little.

“ _Tales of Delos_ , huh? I bet that’s saucy,” said Fred. Everyone knew that Delos is the planet with the mist that makes people give in to their passions, so to speak.

“It had better be,” said Margot, snatching it back from him and placing it where it came from before random bar patrons could see the cover. “I had to trade my copy of _Galactic Love_ to get it.”

Cece patted her hand. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll hook you up.”

Okay, it was okay. Fred wasn’t going to be one of those guys who has a conniption about this stuff.

Fred looked at me. “Gwen loved your story, Mary Sue. She read it to all of us yesterday while we were waiting for the panel to start.”

“She did?” I was moderately freaking out. _The_ Gwen Demarco had done a dramatic reading of _my story_ in front of the entire main cast!

“Yeah, it was really cute. Gwen said you should be writing for the show.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell my parents that I’ve got a job. They’ll be happy to keep my college tuition for a hot tub or something,” I said. I was wildly freaking out now, but I kept it inside. Outside, I was Bailey with an updo and a wine spritzer — the kind of cosmopolitan gal who did _bon mots_.

Connie wasn’t. She snorted and said, “Good luck with that, Mary Sue.”

“Pity,” said Fred. “With you in the writers’ room, I’d get more naps.” Tech Sgt. Chen didn’t have a terribly active role in my story.

The waitress came by again, and Fred ordered a beer.

“So,” said Cece, “I’ve heard a rumor that Amber Joie is going to be making a guest appearance this season.”

“I’ve heard that rumor too,” said Fred, coyly.

“Oh, come on, Fred!” said Shondra. “There must be something you can tell us.”

“Well…” said Fred. “There’s going to be an episode where Taggart breaks the ship and I fix it at the last minute.”

“You’re a goddamn laugh riot, Fred,” said Margot.

“I think I have more of a dry sense of humor,” said Fred. “What are you-all working on?”

“Well…” said Cece. “Margot’s writing a story where Cmdr. Taggart breaks his heart and Dr. Lazarus fixes it.”

“With his penis,” Margot added.

“So Shondra’s not illustrating this one, I take it,” said Fred.

“Hey, I draw Lazarus with a dick sometimes,” said Shondra, giving Fred’s arm a little swat.

“If dicks had sea anemones at the end,” said Cece.

“It’s the Mak’Tar tickler,” said Margot.

I honestly couldn’t tell at that point if I was laughing at the jokes or just going into hysterics because I couldn’t believe that we were talking about sex, _gay_ sex, in front of a man — an older man, no less. In mixed company, as they used to say.

Hell, I didn’t even know slash existed until two days ago.

Nor had it occurred to me that there was so much creative speculation about the nature of Dr. Lazarus’s dangly bits.

I mean, I definitely approved. I had bought so many slash zines (along with some more mainstream titles) that I only had enough money left over for a keychain with the NSEA emblem on it. And I only bought the keychain so I’d have something to show my mom when she asked if I got any souvenirs.

So, yeah, it was a little shocking.

But here’s the thing — there were no icky vibes. Fred acted as if we were just people, laughing about a thing people do. Like, of course people want to go out and have a drink and tell jokes and be silly and bawdy. Even people who are women. And gay sex is just sex. It’s all tender and sweet and hilarious. And there’s nothing wrong about spending your spare time drawing a guy who has a cock with a sea anemone on top of it. Weird, sure, but not wrong.

Everything was so good. My story was a success. The constant, nagging sense of being judged was gone. I had three-quarters of a wine spritzer in me. I was warm and secure all squashed between Connie and Cece. And Fred Kwan was there and smiling, and I decided he had pretty eyes and sexy forearms too. I was feeling generous with the physical appreciation that night. Shondra was so graceful, Margot had a great rack, and Connie (I never noticed until just then) had such amazing hair – like zero split ends.

I was euphoric in that way you get sometimes when you just realize that there’s true beauty in the world, and my brain was quiet, and I was content to listen to the conversation.

“Are you okay, Mary Sue?” asked Cece.

“I’m just happy,” I said, and somehow I’m sure everyone there got it.

“Oh hey,” said Fred. He stood up and grabbed the copy of _Galactic Adventures_ from the table. He jogged out of the lounge. When he came back a couple minutes later, he handed the zine to me. On the cover someone had scrawled a message in blue ink —

Thalia —  
Awesome story! I loved it!  
Supertramp rocks!!!  
XOXO  
Gwen Demarco

 

 

***

 

When All the World’s Asleep

By Thalia Z.

 

It was a typical day on the NSEA _Protector._ Commander Taggart was sitting in his chair, going over reports on his TABLIT while Laredo guided the ship toward Targathia. Dr. Lazarus was in the staff meeting room with the ambassador from Zatchzxy, discussing the upcoming peace negotiations with the Targathians. Lt. Tawny Madison wouldn’t have minded helping Dr. Lazarus — the ambassador had honey-blond hair and a cute butt! — but Dr. Lazarus had said that he “didn’t require any assistance,” so Tawny was relaxing at her station. She loved these long trips through the emptier parts of the galaxy. There wasn’t much for her to do, so she had time to catch up on her favorite book or listen to some music on her headphones. Right now, she was listening to Supertramp, which was her favorite band, even though they were pretty old — a couple hundred years old!

Suddenly, Commander Taggart stood up like his chair had just zapped him with a jolt of electricity! He dropped the TABLIT on the floor and fell back into his chair, unconscious! Tawny pulled off her headphones and looked around the command deck. All of the crew were slumped over at their stations, even Laredo. No one was steering the ship!

“Warning!” came the voice of the ship’s computer. “There are intruders on levels 4 and 8.”

“Intruders on levels 4 and 8!?!” exclaimed Tawny. “Computer, can you identify the intruders?”

“They are of the Mank’Nar race.”

“There are Mank’Nar warriors on the _Protector_! How many? What’s their location?”

“Seven,” said the computer. “Three of the Mank’Nar are moving toward Engineering, and four of them are nearing the command deck.”

“Three heading to engineering and four coming here,” said Tawny. “Computer, can you contact Tech Sgt. Chen?” she asked.

“Working,” replied the computer. “Tech Sgt. Chen is in the engineering room, but he does not answer.”

“Chen’s at his post but he’s not answering? Why not?”

“My sensors indicate that Tech Sgt. Chen is unconscious, as is the entire crew, with the exception of you, Lt. Madison.”

“Everyone’s unconscious but me!?!”

“Every other member of the crew is unconscious,” corrected the computer. “The Mank’Nar are conscious, as is the Zatchzxian ambassador.”

“Okay, so Ambassador b’NaDiik and I are awake,” said Tawny. She bit her lower lip in thought. It didn’t take a genius (and good thing, since the resident genius was also out cold) to figure out that the Mank’Nar were attempting to sabotage the peace talks between Zatchzxy and Targathia. For decades, the two planets had been at each others’ throats, and the Mank’Nar had taken advantage of the chaos to raid pretty much any planet they pleased in that quadrant. If the Zatchzxians and the Targathians set aside their differences, they would be able to use their vast armadas to keep the peace. The Mank’Nar hated peace.

First things first, thought Tawny.

“Computer,” she said aloud as she went to Laredo’s station. “Stop the ship.”

“Confirmation from Lt. Laredo required.”

“Of course you need confirmation,” muttered Tawny. Unfortunately, the navigation screen could read fingerprints and only Laredo would be allowed to use it unless a higher-ranking officer gave the command to transfer control of the ship to someone else, and for SOME reason, she was the same rank as the 9-year-old pilot. However, Laredo himself could also transfer the controls in case he needed to use the bathroom or something. She picked up Laredo’s limp hand and wrapped her own hand around it, holding down all of his fingers except the pointer which she used to key in his authorization code. Luckily, he had told her once that it was the same as his Zarni Fuzzoid’s birthday. He must have forgotten that she was the one who had given him the creature in the first place. She could hear the pitch of the engine sound change as the ship stopped moving.

Just then, the door slid open. The Mank’Nar were on the command deck!

“Stop!” shouted the first warrior off the lift. “Move away from the console!” He indicated the direction that he wanted her to go with his phase rifle. Tawny stepped aside. The second Mank’Nar came out of the lift, and moved down to Laredo’s console, his own phase rifle aimed at Tawny the whole time.

The third Mank’Nar was followed closely by the fourth, who stayed a step behind and to the left of the third. Tawny had dealt with enough Mank’Nar to know that the fourth one must be a body guard to the third one. That meant the third one was in charge.

“Who are you?” demanded the third.

“I’m Lt. Tawny Madison of the NSEA _Protector_. That’s all that I’m at liberty to say.”

“And how have you escaped the effects of our Sonic Trance Emitter, Lieutenant?” he asked. “The sound pulse that we fired at your ship should put all Humans who hear it into a coma. We even made sure to configure it so that it would get your Mak’Tar doctor as well.”

Thank you, Supertramp, thought Tawny. Out loud, she said, “I guess your doo-hickey doesn’t work too well. You should have it checked.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Lieutenant,” growled the general. “I will. In the meanwhile, why are we no longer moving?”

Tawny opened her mouth to make another smart-assed remark, but the Mank’Nar near Laredo’s console spoke first.

“The last command that the ship’s computer received was to halt progress toward Targathia and hold the current position until it receives the proper authorization to move,” he said, fiddling with a device that he had placed over Laredo’s console.

Tawny suppressed a smile. Good old computer! It always understood what she needed perfectly. If she ever met a man who listened half as well, she’d probably marry him on the spot!

“Well, give it a new order then!” yelled the general. “We can’t attack Targathia from here! And if we don’t attack, their little peace treaty will put an end to this war. I don’t have to explain the consequences to you, do I?”

“You’ll never get away with that!” shouted Tawny. “Targathia will destroy the _Protector_ , and when they examine the debris, they’ll find Mank’Nar remains. They’ll know it was you all along!”

“Oh, I have no plans to be on this ship when it attacks, Lieutenant. That’s what THAT device is for.” He pointed at the second Mank’Nar, who was busy poking buttons on the thing he had placed over Laredo’s console. “It’s an Electronic Override Apparatus, or EOA for short. It can pilot this ship and use its weapons systems. Once we’ve successfully attached it, the EOA is programmed to fly the _Protector_ to Targathia and attack. We’ll be long gone by that time. Although, I really wish I could stay and watch the _Protector_ and its crew being blown to space dust. I imagine that Commander Taggart here will not be remembered too fondly either, but that’s just a bonus.” He reached out and shoved Taggart to the floor!

The door opened again, and another Mank’Nar warrior stepped onto the command deck. “We’ve swept the ship, General. The Zatchzxian ambassador is awake, but the entire crew is unconscious. Mo’og is taking the ambassador to their brig right now.”

“An excellent idea,” said the general. “Once we have the EOA in place, we’ll take Lt. Madison there too.”

“I’ve just about got it… There! I’m in, General,” said the button-poker.

“It’s about time! Get the lieutenant. I want to get back to our own ship. These Earth ships stink of Humans.”

It’s better than smelling like a Mank’Nar, thought Tawny.

Button-Poker grabbed Tawny’s upper arm and pulled her roughly to the command deck door. Once in the corridor, one of the Mank’Nar turned and blasted the control panel with his phase rifle. So much for getting back in that way!

They continued down to the brig, Button-Poker yanking Tawny along the whole way. Once there, he shoved her unceremoniously into one of the cells, causing her to trip and fall right into the arms of the ambassador. Well, that was embarrassing! Tawny turned her head and saw the Mank’Nar bring up the force field that formed the fourth wall of the cell.

“Have a pleasant journey!” laughed the general. He turned and signaled his warriors to follow him. In the doorway, he turned back again and grinned evilly at Tawny and the ambassador. “Give my regards to Targathia! Not that you have a choice!” His maniacal laughter echoed in the corridor until the door slid shut.

She felt the ambassador gently set her upright again and decided that she should probably take her cheek off his broad, muscular chest even though she didn’t really want to!

“Lt. Madison!” said the handsome Zatchzxian. “It is nice to see you again, although I wish that the circumstances were better.”

“I feel exactly the same way,” said Tawny. “It seems we’re the only two people on the ship who aren’t passed out.” She pointed to a crewman who appeared to be napping at the monitoring station for the brig.

“How did you come to be free of the effects of the sonic trance emitter?” asked b’Na’Diik.

“I had my headphones on, listening to music. We don’t usually encounter much chatter over the ultraspace channels in these sparsely populated sectors, so I listen to something to keep from getting bored. I fixed it so that any transmissions we receive directly will interrupt what I’m listening to, of course, so I don’t miss anything. How are you awake?”

“Different frequencies of sound affect different species… well, differently. They used a frequency that would only work on a Human or a Mak’Tar. I’m afraid that the Mank’Nar are attempting to sabotage the peace talks.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” replied Tawny. She filled him in on the conversation that had just taken place on the command deck.

“We must find a way to stop them, but what can we do from a cell in the brig?” he asked.

“I’m not sure how we’ll get to that EOA thing,” said Tawny, “but I can do something about our unlawful incarceration. Computer, have the Mank’Nar left?”

“There are no members of that species currently aboard the _Protector_ ,” replied the computer.

“Cool, they’re gone. Computer, lower the force field on cell three on my authorization.”

The force field disappeared.

“That’s a nice skill to have,” said b’Na’Diik.

“As long as the force field wasn’t authorized by someone who outranks me, I can order it to be lowered. And since I definitely outrank a Mank’Nar warrior…”

“… down it comes. I see. Well, since you’ve so graciously rescued me, I feel that we can dispense with the formalities, Lieutenant. Please, call me Drrk.”

“Only if you call me Tawny,” she replied, maybe just a little flirtatiously.

“I would be honored, Tawny.” Drrk’s smile may have been just a little flirtatious too.

Well, this was pleasant, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. Tawny tore her light brown eyes from Drrk’s dark blue ones. It was time to get down to business.

“Computer,” she said, “How long until we reach Targathia?”

“At its current speed, the _Protector_ will arrive in the Targathian System in 1 hour and 38 minutes,” replied the computer.

“Just a little over an hour and a half.” Tawny bit her lip. It wasn’t much time.

“Let’s see if we can pry the door to the command deck open,” said Tawny.

“It’s worth a try,” agreed Drrk.

They stopped off in Engineering before going up to the command deck. Chen was lying on his side near the main console. Tawny gave him a shake, but she didn’t really expect him to wake up. Words like “trance emitter” and “coma” made her suspect that it would take more than the smell of coffee and bacon to rouse the crew.

“Help me take him over to that side console,” she said. “He keeps his tools under it.”

Drrk lifted Chen easily, then laid him gently next to the console on the other side of the room. Tawny bit her lip. Strength and kindness were a sexy combination. She gave her head a little shake and promised herself that she would pursue that thought more thoroughly once they were no longer in danger. For now, she picked up Chen’s hand and slapped it against the glowing panel beneath the console. The door slid back, revealing the neat row of tools Chen kept there. Tawny quickly located the pry bar and removed it.

“Rather primitive, isn’t it?” asked Drrk.

“Chen’s too much of a professional to allow sticky doors on the _Protector_ ,” said Tawny. “But even he can’t prevent the ship from being damaged in a fight. Circuits get overloaded, sometimes trapping crew behind malfunctioning doors. Then it’s a good old pry bar to the rescue. Sometimes old-fashioned methods are best. I just hope it works on the door to the command deck. That one has special reinforcements.”

They hurried up to the command deck, but the door was a no-go. Drrk tried to pry it open for several minutes, but it wouldn’t budge. From the way that he had lifted Chen, Tawny knew that Drrk had to be much stronger than a Human. If he couldn’t get the door open through brute force, there was no way she’d manage it. They would have to think of another plan. Tawny scowled at the floor in concentration.

Suddenly, she noticed Drrk looking her. He appeared to be mesmerized by her mouth.

“You’re staring,” she said, but she was smiling when she said it.

“It’s just that you bite your lip when you’re thinking,” he said, “and it’s…”

“It’s what?” As is if she didn’t know, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“It’s very… tempting,” he said. “I feel sorry for that poor abused lip. I’d like to kiss it and make it better.”

“Well, your offer is very… tempting,” she replied, “but I hardly think now is the time to be worrying about my mouth and what it might need… in the way of medical attention, I mean.”

“Of course,” he said.

They were grinning stupidly at each other when Tawny remembered the protocol for dealing with an inaccessible primary command deck.

“The secondary command deck!” she exclaimed.

“The what?” asked Drrk.

“The secondary command deck! Sometimes we need to separate this part of the ship from the main ship. When we do that, the main ship is controlled from the secondary command deck. We might be able to override the override device from there. Come on!”

Tawny grabbed Drrk’s hand and led him quickly through the labyrinth of corridors to the secondary command deck. They had already used up 20 minutes.

When they got to the secondary command deck, they found an ensign sprawled across the floor. Drrk picked her up and laid her in an out-of-the-way corner as easily as he had moved Chen. Tawny began starting up the stations on the deck. Whenever these systems were started, the ship’s computer ran a quick diagnostic on them to make sure that they were running correctly, and she could feel the vibration they made as they came on.

“Whoa…”

“What is it?” asked Drrk.

“What’s what?” asked Tawny.

“Didn’t you just say ‘whoa?’ I thought that was an Earth expression of surprise.”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Tawny.

“Wha’s goin’ on? Ow, my head!”

Tawny and Drrk both turned toward the corner where he had left the ensign, and saw her struggling to sit up! They rushed to her side and helped her get propped up against the wall.

“Are you alright, Ensign?” Tawny asked her.

“I’m fine, but the room is acting weird,” she replied.

“What do you remember?” asked Drrk.

“Tech Sgt. Chen sent me here to check on a possible malfunction in the plasma/anti-plasma exchange unit. I had just entered the room when every muscle in my body seemed to tense up. The next thing I know, I was waking up here.”

“Maybe the effects of the trance emitter are wearing off?” asked Drrk.

Tawny went to the door and looked down the corridor. She could see the crew members they had passed on the way here still lying there.

“They’re still out,” she said crouching once more next to Drrk and the ensign. “Computer, has anyone else woken up?” she asked.

“Sensors indicate that Ensign Larsen is the only crew member to have regained consciousness,” said the computer.

“Larsen’s the only one, so whatever happened, happened in here,” said Tawny.

“Maybe it was that humming noise that came from the console when you started the machines. After all, it was a sound that triggered their unconscious state in the first place.” said Drrk.

“What humming noise?” asked Tawny.

“You didn’t hear it? It was quite loud.”

Tawny caught herself before she bit her lip again. “I can feel a vibration when the computers in the consoles send their self-diagnostics to the main computer. Now that I think about it, Dr. Lazarus has complained in the past about the ship making noises that only he can hear. Something about the frequencies being too high or low for Humans to detect.”

“This was a high-pitched whine,” said Drrk. “It might be the ‘antidote,’ so to speak. The trance emitter made a very low sound.”

“Do you think you could make a sound at the same frequency?”

Drrk shook his head. “I’m sure my vocal chords don’t stretch that far.”

“Maybe we’ll think of something,” said Tawny. “For right now though, we need to see if we can get the ship under control.”

She stood up, went to the helm and started punching in commands.

“Damn!” she exclaimed.

Drrk came to her side. “Now I KNOW that Earth expression. Things aren’t going well,” he said.

“I transferred control of the ship from Laredo to me before the Mank’Nar showed up, but it’s not responding.” She swiped and pushed and cursed a little more. “It’s no use,” she said, defeated. Another 20 minutes had passed. They had less than an hour now.

“If only we could wake up Taggart or Laredo,” said Tawny. “That thing is just sitting there on Laredo’s console. A kitten could push it off.”

“Do we have any of these ‘kit-tens?’" asked Drrk.

Tawny chuckled. “No, and even if we did, we have no way of getting it onto the command deck. The access crawlways leading to it are blocked with force fields, and Chen’s the only one who can override them. Even if we dragged him through the half a kilometer of crawlways between engineering and command, we’d need more than his palm print, and I don’t know his passcode.”

“So we’re back to trying to rouse the others,” said Drrk. “Which means replicating the sound of these systems booting up. Do you have anything that can create tones outside the range of Human hearing?”

Tawny thought about it. Dr. Lazarus could hear things that Humans couldn’t. He had complained about the ship’s noises and that Humans couldn’t really appreciate Mak’Tar music since they couldn’t hear all of the notes… “The armonomin!” she exclaimed.

“The what?” asked Drrk.

“The Mak’Tar armonomin! Dr. Lazarus has one and it makes notes that only he can hear! He let me play it once.”

“Where is it?”

“In his quarters.”

“Which we can’t get into without his palm print?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. He’s going to be very heavy — his bones and muscles are more dense than a Human’s.”

“I’ll manage,” said Drrk, smiling.

“I’m sure you will,” said Tawny, smiling back. She turned to the ensign. “Will you be okay, Larsen?”

“Yes. I’m not woozy anymore, and I’m starting to feel stronger.”

“Good,” said Tawny. “Hopefully everyone will recover quickly.” She turned to Drrk. “Is Dr. Lazarus still in the meeting room?”

“That’s where he was the last time I saw him,” affirmed Drrk.

“Well, at least that’s close to his quarters,” said Tawny. “Let’s go.” They had 40 minutes left.

When they got to the meeting room, they found Dr. Lazarus sitting in one of the chairs, his torso sprawled across the table. Drrk got him into a fireman’s carry, and they headed back down the corridor. Dr. Lazarus’s quarters were only five doors down from the meeting room. Once they got there, Tawny used his hand to activate the door. It slid open, and Drrk carried him inside.

“Where’s the doctor’s bed?” asked Drrk, staring around at the apparently empty room.

“Oh,” said Tawny. “You’d better lay him on the floor. His bed is a little weird, and if I remember correctly, he needs to meditate for twenty minutes before using it or it’ll kill him.”

“Okay,” said Drrk, and he laid Dr. Lazarus carefully on the floor.

Tawny pressed a button on the left-hand wall. A panel slid up, revealing a contraption about the size of an old-fashioned keyboard synthesizer. The table it rested on had a series of buttons, dials, and switches, and there were 3 foot pedals on the floor underneath. There was also a small bench for the musician to sit on. The instrument itself was a long, undulating piece of dichromatic glass in shifting shades of green and lavender. It looked like a thick leg for a giant’s coffee table, thicker on the left side than on the right. Tawny flipped one of the switches, and the glass began to rotate. She turned a dial, and it spun faster and faster until it started giving off a green glow that seemed to spit pink and gold sparks.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me when you think I’ve got it right.” She thrust her right hand into the green glow over the narrow end of the spinning glass. An other-worldly hum filled the room. It got louder as she moved her hand closer to the glass. She moved her hand farther to the right, and the sound grew higher and higher in pitch until Tawny could no longer hear it. Drrk could, though, and he evidently didn’t enjoy the experience. He winced.

“Just a little higher,” he said loudly, as if speaking over something noisy.

She moved her hand a fraction to the right.

“For Ipthar’s sake, Lt. Madison, don’t break it.”

Tawny took her hand away from the armonomin and turned at the deep, warm sound of her friend’s voice. “Good morning, Dr. Lazarus,” she said with a grin.

He nodded at her with a great deal of dignity for a man lying flat on the floor. Drrk bent and helped him into a sitting position.

“If I were capable of metabolizing alcohol, I’d assume that I have a terrible hangover,” said Dr. Lazarus.

“You were hit with a pulse from a sonic trance emitter,” said Drrk. “Weakness and vertigo seem to be common side effects.”

“I see,” said Dr. Lazarus. “I congratulate you on discovering a way to reverse the main effect. Are we the only ones who are conscious at this time?”

“Us and an ensign we left on the secondary command deck,” said Tawny. “I thought I could broadcast the wake-up tone through the ship over the intercom.”

“An excellent plan, Lieutenant. Give me a few minutes and I should be recuperated enough to be of assistance.”

“We don’t have many minutes left, Doctor,” said Tawny. “Computer, how long before we reach Targathia?”

“We will arrive at that destination in 32.8 minutes,” replied the computer.

“We have about half an hour to remove a device from Laredo’s console or the _Protector_ will open fire on Targathia,” said Tawny.

“Speed is of the essence, I see,” said Dr. Lazarus. “Still, it won’t do to be too hasty. 600 incapacitated and confused crew members will have to be dealt with somehow. Brief me on the events that took place while I was unconscious, please. I should be ambulatory by the time you have finished.”

Tawny was surprised that he wasn’t ambulatory by the time HE finished, but she and Drrk quickly filled Dr. Lazarus in on the situation while the doctor performed a series of isometric exercises. By the time they were done, the doctor was, as he had promised, up and walking around, though still very weak.

“Let us proceed then,” he said.

“Computer, open every comm on the ship,” said Tawny.

“Communicators open,” said the computer.

“They’re open,” she told Dr. Lazarus.

Dr. Lazarus placed his hand near the spinning glass while touching one of the pedals with his foot. Tawny figured it must boost the volume from the that way Drrk winced and covered his ears. Dr. Lazarus gestured toward the door. Tawny peeked out and saw the crew members in the corridor stirring. She nodded at the doctor, and he removed his hand from the instrument.

“Attention crew,” said Dr. Lazarus. “The NSEA _Protector_ has been attacked by a sonic weapon. The weakness and vertigo you are now experiencing is a normal reaction. Do not panic. Someone will assist you soon.” He nodded again at Tawny.

“Computer, close the channel,” she said.

Dr. Lazarus flipped a switch and the armonomin began to power down. He then went to the comm on his wall near the door and held down a button.

“Dr. Lazarus to the command deck. Can you hear me?”

Silence.

“Cmdr. Taggart, please respond.”

More silence.

“Peter, are you there?”

Dr. Lazarus and Tawny exchanged worried looks.

“Computer,” said Tawny. “Has everyone woken up?”

“Sensors indicate that the entire crew, with the exception of those on the command deck, are now conscious,” replied the computer.

“Everyone on the command deck is still out,” said Tawny, “but why?” She bit her lip, trying to remember the exact sequence of events. First she had seen Cmdr. Taggart nearly leap from his chair, then fall back into it. She had stood up, and felt a tug as the cord on her headphones pulled taut… “It’s my headphones. They’re still plugged in.”

“And when they’re plugged in, sound is routed to them instead of the intercom loudspeakers,” said Dr. Lazarus.

“Yeah,” said Tawny, ruefully.

“So, we’re going to have to find another way to get the sound to the command deck,” said Drrk.

“We could go through the crawlways,” said Tawny, “if we can find something that can make that particular frequency.”

“I’ve never seen what Tawny refers to as your crawlways, but I suspect that armonomin thing won’t fit,” said Drrk.

“It wouldn’t. It also weighs 312 kilograms,” said Dr. Lazarus.

“Yikes,” said Tawny.

“However, I do have a tone modulation analysis device.” Dr. Lazarus reached behind the armonomin and lifted into view a metal cube about the size of an Eonid box melon and covered in small squares. He set it on the bench and placed his hand on top of it. The squares lit up in bright colors.

“A what?” asked Tawny.

“You would call it a pitch pipe, Lieutenant,” said Dr. Lazarus. “It has other capabilities which I will be happy to expound upon at some other, less dire time, but for now, this will reproduce the necessary sound, and it only weighs 71 kilograms.”

“Only,” said Tawny. She smiled at Drrk. “How about a short tour of the crawlways, Ambassador?”

“I’d be delighted, Lieutenant,” replied Drrk.

Dr. Lazarus sighed impatiently. “This square will activate the correct tone.” He touched a pink square on the side of the device. “Touch it again to turn it off. This green rectangle controls the volume.” Once he had demonstrated that as well, he handed the cube to Drrk. “I will go to the secondary command deck and prepare to take control of the ship from there. We have 13 minutes remaining.”

“Come on,” said Tawny. They ran down the corridor, passing crew members who were now beginning to stir. Tawny led Drrk to a hatch near the command deck. She climbed the wall-mounted ladder up to the opening and crawled in. Drrk followed with the cube tucked under his arm.

“I can see why they’re called crawlways,” he said, as they made their way down the narrow space on all fours.

“They’re really air ducts,” said Tawny, glancing over her shoulder. “The engineering department started calling them that because they’re always using them to get to stuff that needs to be repaired.”

Tawny turned left at the intersection, and they continued down the crawlway for a few more meters before they came to a halt in front of the force field. Drrk squeezed up next to Tawny, scooting the cube in front of him.

“Here goes nothin’,” she said, touching the pink square. She slid her finger up the green rectangle to hopefully turn up the volume. From the way Drrk pursed his lips in the green light of the force-field, she was pretty sure it was working. She touched the pink square again to turn the device off.

“Cmdr. Taggart!” she shouted. “Peter! Can you hear me?”

“I hear you Tawny, but I don’t see you,” came a voice. “Also, I think someone dropped a box of quantum rocket detonators on me, not to mention that I have a wicked case of the room-zooms. What the hell’s going on?”

“I’d love to explain, Peter, but we have about 3 minutes before the _Protector_ is going to start firing on Targathia! The Mank’Nar left some kind of override device on Laredo’s station! You’ve got to remove it. Dr. Lazarus is waiting on the secondary command deck to take control of the ship!”

“I see it!” shouted Taggart. “Laredo! Can you move? You need to knock that thing off your station!”

A soft moan was the only answer.

“He can’t move!” yelled Taggart. “He’s weak as a kitten! I’m trying to get over there. It was nice of the Mank’Nar to leave me on the floor! I don’t have to bother with getting out of my chair!”

“I thought a kit-ten was strong enough to remove the device,” said Drrk.

“It’s a Human thing. We tend to exaggerate when it comes to kittens.”

“We are now entering the Qor System. Inhabited planet — Targathia. Uninhabited planets — Peb, L’uqar, Do—”

“Qor System!” said Tawny. “Got it, Computer. How long until the _Protector_ fires on Targathia?”

“Weapons systems are ready and will commence firing in 1 minutes 17 seconds,” said the computer.

“You’ve only got about a minute, Peter!” yelled Tawny.

“Somebody moved…[grunt] the pilot’s station…[ouch!] about 2 kilometers…[huff] away!” answered Taggart.

“Computer, start a countdown,” said Tawny. She knew Peter. He always performed better when he had a deadline.

“Weapons will deploy in 37 seconds. 36… 35… 34…”

Tawny could hear Taggart puffing and groaning as he dragged himself across the floor of the command deck.

“29… 28… 27…”

“I’m just… [grrr] about there!”

“17… 16… 15…”

There was a soft thud. “Sorry, Laredo,” said Taggart.

“8… 7… 6…”

“Okay, I’ve got hold of it!” yelled Taggart. “Ugh, it’s heavier than it looks!”

“5… 4… 3… 2…”

“GAHHH!” There was a louder thud followed by —

“Ship’s control transferred to the secondary command deck. Weapons are powering down.”

“You did it, Peter! Dr. Lazarus has control of the ship and he’s powered down the weapons!” yelled Tawny.

“Guh,” said Taggart.

“Are you okay?” shouted Tawny.

“I’m lying under about fifteen kilos of Mank’Nar technology. Their devices smell as bad as their ships!”

Tawny grinned.

“Dr. Lazarus was able to recuperate from the effects of the sonic pulse in about seven of your minutes,” said Drrk. “The Mak’Tar are well-known for their ability to heal quickly, but I don’t think it will take much longer than fifteen minutes for a Human.”

“Good to know, Ambassador,” said Taggart. “How are you enjoying your trip?” There was a crash that Tawny assumed was the EOA being shoved off Taggart’s chest and onto the floor.

“It has been most exciting, Commander,” said Drrk. He looked at Tawny, and said quietly. “But then I have exciting company.”

She smiled. “We make a good team.”

“Well, teammate,” said Drrk, drawing even closer to Tawny, which considering that they were already crammed next to each other in the air duct, was pretty close. “I think I promised you some first aid.”

“I could go for a little medical attention,” she agreed.

Drrk bent forward just enough to close the gap between them and brushed her lips tenderly with his own.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“I may need more _intensive_ care,” she replied.

This time Drrk pressed his mouth more firmly to hers. When she felt his tongue flicker against her lip, she opened her mouth and let him slip inside. His tongue felt warm and slick against hers, and she felt a thrill that drove straight down her body when she heard him moan softly. She pulled back and smiled.

“You know,” she said, “now that the adrenaline is wearing off, I think I might be more injured than I knew.”

“Oh really?” asked Drrk.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure this warrants at least an overnight stay.”

“Overnight? In an air duct?”

“No, silly! My quarters. I need bed rest.”

“Your bed would probably be the best place for… healing.”

“Yeah, and I think I’m injured in a lot of places that could benefit from your particular kind of therapy.”

Drrk smiled and kissed her again.

“The peace talks start tomorrow,” he said. “Until then, I would be happy to aid your recovery in any way I can.”

 

 

***

 

 

Yeah, that’s about where the porn started. You’re not missing much, believe me. In those days, what I lacked in experience, basic understanding of anatomy or physics, and any logic whatsoever, I made up for in imagination.

Oh, and the dialog somehow managed to get even cheesier.

But now that I look at this, I have to think that Fred Kwan was right. I was hoping for my shot at being a hero.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary Sue drinks a wine spritzer in a bar. She is only 17. Le gasp!
> 
> "When All the World's Asleep" is a line from the 1978 Supertramp classic, ["The Logical Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_NGulTmh88)."


	3. Mary Sue's First Time Trip -- 1979

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine's grand adventure turns out to be a grind adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic got its start in me noodling about Ye Star Trek Fandom of Ye Olden Days. I did this so much that I finally said, "Hey Brain, let's start thinking about our new fic."  
> Brain: I think this is our new fic.  
> Me: No. We are including all of the people, famous and infamous, that were actually there, and RPF squicks me.  
> Brain: We could make them all fictional characters.  
> Me: _Galaxy Quest_ already did that.  
> Brain: So we do _Galaxy Quest_. No squicky RPF and we get to spend the next 8-10 months imagining a love interest who sounds exactly like Alan Rickman.  
> Me: Sold.
> 
> Then I went and put real people in it.
> 
> See, some of the canon I chose to include was a silly E! mockumentary in which Linda DeScenna, Matt Sweeney, and Stan Winston play themselves as people who once worked on a cheesy, early '80's TV show, rather than the respected artists who worked on a major Hollywood film.
> 
> I threw them in as characters anyway, but Linda DeScenna is the only one who shows up much. So right now, I want you to know that I know very little about her outside of an interview she did about working on the original _Blade Runner_ , but just for that she has my undying respect. 
> 
> Anyway TL;DR -- I wasn't comfortable writing about a real-life actor having a torrid affair with what is supposed to be my thinly veiled avatar, but I was fine with writing a real-life set designer being understandably irritated by her.
> 
>  
> 
> This is one of many, many chapters in which pot-smoking occurs. I'm not going to warn for it specifically again, since it's just a thing that occurs on the regular in this fic. That said, this is the only chapter in which a character does harder drugs, although they will be referenced again.
> 
> Age gaps are another recurring theme. And I won't be warning for that again either.

“So _Galaxy Quest_ is going to be a big deal, huh?”

“Yes,” I say. I mean, it will be… eventually.

Frank Ross and I are sitting on his couch, and he’s poured us both a glass of wine. I’m not sure he’d be thrilled to know that _Galaxy Quest_ is going to be a cult classic, especially since there’s quite a bit of delayed gratification in cult classics, and I’m not sure how into delayed gratification Frank Ross is. I’m also really reluctant to tell him too much about the future and screw up said future any further than it’s already screwed up. Dr. Ionesco, the main character from _Time Tripper_ , said that it’s actually pretty difficult for a time traveler to “break” time and pretty easy for one to fix it, but on the other hand, he managed to screw something up every other episode, so what does he know?

“Well, not immediately,” I say.

“Okay. We’ve got to find our audience. I get that,” says Frank.

“Right. Look, Frank – it would be a very bad idea for me to tell you too much. Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Effect?”

“A butterfly flapping its wings in Argentina could set off a hurricane in Florida,” he says.

Close enough. “Time travel is like that. Everything I do or say could be a wing flap, so it’s best that I keep it to a minimum.”

He nods solemnly. “Everything’s on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t need to know.”

“Yeah, basically,” I say.

“Can you at least tell me if we’re getting better? Are we ending war and racism and poverty and sexism? Can we love whoever we want, however we want?”

Well, shit.

I need to answer this carefully. The ‘80’s are coming, and Frank is going to need some hope to see him through.

“We’re getting better, but it doesn’t always look like we are,” I say. “A cornered animal always fights the hardest. Some very greedy people are figuring out how to use that to their advantage. But I’ll tell you this — I do believe we’re going to get there and I know stories like the ones you’re going to tell will help us.”

And dammit, he looks so wide-eyed and happy. It’s hard to reconcile this skinny, bespectacled dreamer with the person he’s going to become.

 

Frank, as it turns out, doesn’t own a house. He owns a genuine compound. It’s an itty-bitty compound — less than 1,500 square feet of livable indoor space — but it meets the requirements nonetheless. Besides the main house, there’s a guest house, a small painting studio, an even smaller ceramics studio, (both of which are now being used for storage) and a garage just big enough for two cars. The whole thing sits in a surprisingly lush garden that has obviously had time to grow in. There’s a pond full of koi and a little stream. And there are decks everywhere. It’s the sort of place where you can do as much living outdoors as in, probably more. It feels bucolic almost — like being at a really fancy camp. Then you turn around and, yup, there’s L.A., right there.

Frank’s parents built this place back in the ‘30’s. They were both successful artists. She painted pictures of cute kids doing stuff like discovering frogs or learning to tie their shoes. He sculpted nature scenes, usually violent ones — a pack of wolves taking down a deer or whatever.

Frank offers me the guest house.

Like the main house, this thing is paneled in redwood. The upstairs is a living room/kitchen combo, with a powder room around the corner from the kitchen and a gas fireplace in the living room. Two dark brown club chairs face the fireplace, with a single brown ottoman in the middle. The downstairs is taken up with the bedroom and the main bathroom. The bedroom has a king size bed with an upholstered headboard, a tall blondewood dresser and a slipper chair upholstered in gold velvet. It opens out onto yet another deck.

There are huge windows throughout the little house and not a smidge of insulation as far as I can tell. The ceiling’s just bare rafters and the planks that provide the support for the shingle roof. I wonder how cold it gets here.

Both houses are a hodgepodge of mid-century furniture, with the guest house getting the oldest stuff. I’m pretty sure the state-of-the-art stereo system and the flokati rug in the middle of the living room are the only things less than 25 years old.

I love it on sight.

Frank has an office in the main house. We head over there and order a pizza.

It’s a cool little room on the lower level of the house, across the short hallway from the master bedroom. Two of the dark paneled walls have modular shelving systems like the kind you often see in garages, except this one also has some long, Danish Modern cupboards with sliding doors that fit on it. He has a big, leggy desk piled with books, and behind his office chair is a low bank of wooden filing cabinets. It’s obvious that the real work gets done at the tiny typing desk to the right of his chair. The shelves above it are positively crammed with books about outer space, naval ships, and various scientific disciplines. One of the shelf walls has two of those cupboards set at the same height, with a span of shelving in between, creating the effect of two floating credenzas with a bookcase separating them.

I have to say, I bet it’s very easy to keep the carpet clean in here.

On one of the credenzas is a small model of a spaceship.

“It’s an early version of the _Protector_ ,” says Frank, when he notices me looking at it.

It looks like… a typical flying saucer with a weird structure made of toilet paper tubes and tongue depressors added off one end.

“I think I like the final version better,” I say.

Next to the model is the weirdest clock ever. It’s a 24-hour clock. Around the outer edge are the hours written in Roman numerals — one to twelve, then for some reason, repeating one to twelve again. Just inside that, the day is divided into ten equal parts, each marked with an Arabic numeral. And inside _that_ is another circle numbered from one to thirty in Arabic numerals. Also, it has five hands.

“French Revolutionary Time,” says Frank. “For over a decade, they tried to make time measurement metric too. They failed. I think it’ll finally catch on when we head to the stars though.”

 

The next morning, I meet Ingelill Ekström. Ingelill is Frank’s assistant — well, they called them private secretaries in those days — and she’s also one of his girlfriends. None of this is news to me. Several people have written books or given interviews about working on _Galaxy Quest_ , and Frank has never made it a secret that he was sleeping with her. People won’t find out about the other girlfriend for a while yet, but she’s an actress named Letitia Lavigne who has a recurring role as Laredo’s mom in the series.

Ingelill is about my age, tall, and broad-shouldered. Her light brown hair is in a neat French twist and she’s wearing a dark blue pantsuit. It’s pretty obvious what she thinks I’m there for -- it's the same thing that she thinks every strange woman that Frank brings home is there for. It doesn’t help that I’m in my carpenter jeans and t-shirt, with my butt-length hair having no more styling than I what I could accomplish with just a comb, (because I forgot to bring along so much as a hair-tie or a barrette) so I look every inch the aging hippie just chock-full of free love.

Once she’s relegated me to the category of “Someone Frank Might Want to Bang but Not Really Competition,” she relaxes a little.

Frank and I have concocted a story to tell Ingelill or anyone else who might want to know — I’m a consultant from Florida. I often work for NASA, as well as IBM and “other tech firms.” I’m here to lend some authenticity to the science depicted in the show. My luggage was lost.

Ingelill’s assignment today is to take me shopping. She looks thrilled.

We hit a mall where I pick up more jeans and shirts, some underwear (and bras and socks). I get a couple of mid-length plaid skirts, silky blouses (my Bailey outfit), and a pair of dressy brown boots to wear with them. I get a tweedy jacket. I get some hair accessories to confine my mop. I eyeball the nylons and wonder if I can get away with going bare-legged, exposing my naked, deathly pale legs to innocent bystanders. I buy one pair, just in case. I also pick up some black Velcro.

Ingelill suggests I get a “decent” purse. She’s right. I don’t want to carry this knapsack everywhere. I find something in faux leather with lots of pockets. Why is everything faux in 1979? Were people just not slaughtering cattle? Literally everything I buy today has had nylon, polyester, or PVC in it except for the jeans. I hope they don’t shrink too much. I get a wallet (vinyl of course) too.

Ingelill is warming up to me. I’m not competition. I have money. (At some point I realize that she thought she’d have to pay for all of this, with Frank probably promising to pay her back. We both know how many mortgages he’s got on that cute little compound.) I’m almost presentable in my Bailey clothes. My hair is still a weird color, but only time will cure that.

I treat her to lunch.

She asks if there’s anywhere else I’d like to go. I say a good kitchen store.

It turns out that Williams-Sonoma has a store on Rodeo Drive.

I’d done a little recon on the kitchen in the guest house. I expect to be here awhile — I’m thinking at least the month that’s left for pre-production and maybe a week or two beyond that. Everything seems to be in good shape — pots and pans are serviceable vintage cast iron, there’s one of those Oster blender/mixer/meat grinder combo thingies, that looks like it’s practically brand new and, there’s a variety of utensils and mixing bowls — but the knives are awful and there’s no pepper mill. I pick one up along with a chef’s knife, a paring knife, and a boning knife. (I don’t plan to dismantle any meat, really, I just prefer a boning knife to a utility knife.) I get a sharpener too. Then I think that I might bake some bread. I used to do that sometimes when I was stressed, but I stopped once I started working in the bakery. Well, I’m not working in the bakery now. I get a bread knife.

On the way back, we hit a grocery store. Now, malls may not have changed much in 20 years — mainly, they don’t seem to be trying so hard to look like they’re not indoors anymore — and Williams Sonoma is still white shelves and shiny pans. But wow, are grocery stores different. I guess I didn’t notice how big they’ve gotten over the years. I mean, I’m only 5’4” and I can reach the top shelves here. And absolutely everything has a price sticker. The “cents” symbol is all over the place. The dearth of things that cost over a dollar is weird. Milk, though. Milk costs the same. Go figure.

Back at the ranch, I search the guest house for a suitable place to stash the knapsack. In the powder room, I find an access panel to the plumbing behind a shelf in the linen closet. If I reach up and around toward the wall, I can feel the 2x6 that supports the plumbing for the sink taps. I steal a cuphook from the kitchen and manage to screw it into the board. I hang the knapsack on it. Anyone with any practice at looking for contraband is bound to find it — probably within 15 minutes of looking, depending on how smart they think I am. I just hope nobody like that is going to have a reason to look. Anyone else, if they even think to move that access panel, will just see pipes.

I got good at hiding stuff after the first time my mom found a couple of my racier zines while putting something away in the top of my closet. Good times.

Funny the things you can learn about potential hidey-holes by watching _This Old House_.

“Mary Sue?” I hear Frank calling me from the living room. Luckily, I had to close the bathroom door in order to get the linen closet door open wide enough to perform this little operation. I flush the toilet to mask the sound of putting the panel back, then I wash the dust off my hands and go see what Frank wants.

“Elliot’s here,” he says. We head over to Frank’s office in the main house.

Elliot Spiegel is the head writer on _Galaxy Quest_. He’s on the short side, and he has a wrestler’s build — compact and muscular — and I suspect he’s been going bald since at least high school. He has just the barest fringe around the lower part of his skull. He doesn’t look happy to be lugging a dozen scripts over to Frank’s.

I’m both a Midwesterner and a woman. To say that I’ve been socialized not to inconvenience people would be an understatement. I remind myself that Laliari and her people will be a hell of a lot more than inconvenienced if I don’t get this done.

“I have work to do, you know,” says Elliot. “These don’t write themselves.”

“Yeah,” says Frank. “I’ve noticed that when I’m sitting at my own typewriter.” He gestures toward me. “This is Mary Sue Zimmerman. She’s a technology consultant.”

Elliot shakes my hand politely. “Nice to meet you.” He turns to Frank. “That doesn’t explain why I have to bring these personally to your personal office,” he says.

“I wanted you to get her input personally,” says Frank.

“Now? We begin shooting in a month.”

I pick up the top script, “The Mystery of Stasis,” and start leafing through it.

“Beryllium cube?” I ask in my best I-sometimes-work-for-NASA voice. “If I understand how the propulsion system is supposed to work, the fuel source is contained within a shell of beryllium. A sphere would be stronger and more efficient.”

That gets Elliot’s attention.

“What the hell? It _is_ supposed to be a beryllium sphere,” says Elliot. “Sphere sounds spacey. Romantic. Nobody cares about a leak in the Cube Chamber.”

“Spheres are planets. Cubes are unsatisfying portions of sweaty orange cheese,” I say. Oops, I’m a consultant, not a writer. Gotta stay in character.

“Exactly,” says Elliot.

I show him the script.

“I’m the last person to go over the scripts before they go to the typing pool,” says Elliot. “There were definitely no beryllium cubes then.”

So this means our guy Gath'gor has either infiltrated the typing pool, (except that he would need to be able to use a QWERTY keyboard with proficiency as well as knowing how to use whatever they use for word processing there — probably some kind of magnetic tape machine) or he found a way to alter the stored data before the scripts are printed off. (I’m sure Gath'gor has the tech. Hell, _I_ have the tech to produce or edit a script, but how would I get it off the Palm and onto an ancient MT/ST? For that matter, maybe they just type them up on a Selectric and photocopy them?) Or he simply intercepted the scripts between Elliot and the typing pool.

“You send a typewritten copy to them?” I ask.

“Yeah, with any revisions written in the margins,” says Elliot. Great. Gath'gor could have made changes with nothing more advanced than a Bic.

“But you don’t walk them over personally,” I say.

“No,” says Elliot, sighing.

“And when you saw the change later? During filming?” I ask.

“I would assume they’d changed it because props had a space-age-looking cube floating around and Frank had decided to save money,” says Elliot. “Then I’d go yell at him for not telling me.

“You know I’d tell you if I made a change to a prop that gets referenced every other episode,” says Frank.

Elliot starts skimming the scripts. He comes up with other changes — props that have been renamed, bits of dialog where Chen is explaining how the quantum flux drive (renamed the wave motion engine) works or where Taggart is ordering that the pulse cannons (not the blue particle cannons) be powered up. Apparently Gath'gor is not a real imaginative type. Half the systems on the _Protector_ seem to have been replaced with their counterparts from a Japanese anime.

The rest is just bizarre. Tawny keeps interpreting what the computer says to mean the exact opposite of what the computer clearly just said. There’s even a scene where Chen describes the digital conveyor as a device that disassembles people at the atomic level, then rebuilds them out of whatever atoms are hanging around in the spot where you want to put the people.

“That is the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard of,” says Elliot. “Would you even be the same person once you got there? None of your atoms would be the same. And what would stop someone from making eight copies of you? That’s just horrifying.”

I keep my mouth shut. Honestly, the digital conveyor is just as bad, if not worse. It’s always given me the heebie-jeebies.

I flip forward in the script until I get to the part with the Ugonian asteroid belt. Sure enough, there’s a “rotating asteroid defense.”

“If nothing else, this would be sure to piss off whoever owns the rights to _Space Battleship Yamato_ ,” I say.

There’s stack lasers. The _Protector_ doesn’t even have a stack.

“What I don’t get is why,” says Elliot. “What’s the point of doing this?”

“To bog down production,” says Frank. I’m glad he knows, because I got nothing. “Maybe we wouldn’t have caught everything in time. We might have screwed up expensive sets and props, and possibly gotten caught in a copyright battle. Suddenly we’re more of a headache than we’re worth, and a fresh time slot opens up.”

It sounds plausible to me, but what do I know? I can tell Elliot thinks it’s fishy, but he’s holding the evidence that somebody tampered with the scripts in his hand, and motive is not his main concern.

“I’ve got the originals in my office,” says Elliot. “I’ll make new copies and take them over to typing myself in the morning.”

“I still want Mary Sue to go over them,” says Frank.

To my surprise, Elliot doesn’t object. “I’ll pick you up at 5:30,” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

I go back to the guest house and dig through the albums on the shelf next to the stereo. It’s obvious that a true audiophile lived here once. The bookcases flanking the system are extra deep to hold records, and the sound this machine is capable of producing is excellent. However, only a handful of albums remain — mostly jazz. I come up with the Hank Williams Memorial Album though. I put it on the turntable and listen to it while I make dinner — a marinated tomato salad with tuna. I sing along with about half of the album. Give me another five or six listens and I’ll be singing along with all of it.

After dinner, I dig out the knapsack and perform a little surgery on it. Using the seam ripper from my sewing kit, I open a seam in the lining at the bottom of the sack. I stitch a length of Velcro to the two sides of the seam. I stash the bulk of the cash under the lining and squeeze the Velcro shut. It’s not perfect, but you’d have to really get in there and look to see it. I hang the sack back on its hook.

Then I’m done. I left 1999 at about three in the afternoon. It was eight at night when I got here. I don’t even know when I got up this morning. I’m time-travel-lagged something fierce. I braid up my hair so that I don’t wake up to a rat’s nest, brush my teeth, and crash.

I wake up to someone hammering loudly on the door.

Fuck. I forgot to set the alarm.

I put on the grey and tan Bailey skirt, wrangle the girls into a bra, and head upstairs while still buttoning my blouse. I unlock the door and let Elliot inside.

“Sorry, Elliot,” I say. “I live in the Eastern Time Zone. As soon as I got some food in me last night, I just conked out and forgot the alarm clock. I’ll only be a minute.” I mean I’m actually five hours off, not four, but what am I going to tell him? I’m from Reykjavik? Wait, I would be five hours in the other direction, right? I give it up. It’s way too early for numbers and geography all at once.

“It’s okay,” he says, in a way that lets me know that it’s not okay and this is going on my permanent record.

Can’t be helped now.

I go back downstairs and put on some socks and my boots. I unbraid my hair and run a comb through it. It’s now doing a weird wavy/frizzy thing which I am sure was not the look in 1979 or possibly ever. I pull it back and snap a barrette over the whole lot. I give my teeth a quick going over, and I’m back up the stairs with my ugly vinyl purse over my shoulder.

“Just one more thing,” I say, smiling apologetically. I go into the powder room and grab the knapsack. I take out sixty dollars and the Palm. I put them both in the purse, realize I actually have to pee, do so, then put the knapsack and panel back while the toilet is flushing. I wash my hands, and I’m out.

“All yours!” I say cheerily.

“Great,” he says in the same tone of voice I use upon discovering that my cat has gifted me a small pile of dead mice.

We are now twelve minutes late. Gosh.

We head out to his car. It’s a blue Gremlin with racing stripes. I have a weakness for anything ugly-cute, and I’m ready to physically hug this car and coo at it. I restrain myself, but not before Elliot catches me grinning at his car.

“If you’ve got comments, get them out now,” he says.

“It’s _adorable_ , Elliot.” I say.

“It’s reliable and it gets good mileage,” says Elliot. He doesn’t fool me for a minute. “And I guess it has a certain… personality.”

We get in and I buckle up. Elliot does too. It takes me a second to realize that I never saw anyone do this in 1979. Ingelill didn’t.

Elliot is silent until we hit the freeway. Then he glances at me and says, “Tech consultant, my ass.”

“Is it that hard to believe?” I ask. I’m not sure what his damage is — is it because I’m female? Or something else?

“You don’t even blink at things like ion shields or blue particle cannons, but you pick up on every piece of tech that’s been cribbed from _Star Blazers_?”

“Ion shields will be necessary for long-term space travel,” I say. I’m sure I’ve read it somewhere.

“Yeah,” says Elliot, “to protect electronics from being damaged by solar flares — not as personal devices to keep little green men from damaging humans with their lasers.”

Oh.

“The truth is way more unbelievable than me being a consultant,” I say.

“Humor me,” says Elliot.

So I do. I tell him that I’m a time traveler sent from the future to make sure that _Galaxy Quest_ turns out just the way it needs to in order to save a race of tentacled aliens.

Elliot smiles and shakes his head.

“At least when you make up a lie, Mary Sue, it’s entertaining and it fits the available information,” he says. “That’s more than I can say for Frank.”

Well, I am The Liar, after all.

At that point, we’re at our exit and Elliot apparently doesn’t hold conversations on surface streets. We go through the studio gate with the guard barely glancing at us. My guess is that Elliot is the only one working here who drives an at-least-five-year-old Gremlin.

Once in his office, Elliot turns to me and says, “Who does Frank suspect?”

“Huh?” He’s lost me.

“Look, you’re obviously a private investigator or something, so who does Frank think is trying to sabotage the show? Is it me?”

Well, if Elliot’s going to invent a new cover story for me, who am I to tell him no? I put on my best V.I. Warshawski face.

“It’s not you, Elliot. We don’t know who’s doing this, but I assure you that Frank trusts you.”

He looks a little dubious.

“It isn’t somebody he’s worked with for long, that’s for sure,” I go on. “Look at what they did — somebody was bound to notice that sooner or later, probably sooner, and the fix is easy. If it was someone Frank knows and trusts, they could throw a much more effective monkey wrench into the works. This is someone sneaking around, using the camouflage of a busy studio not to get noticed.”

It creeps me out to know that Gath'gor is probably lurking nearby right this minute.

But whatever Gath’gor is up to, it’s not impersonating Elliot. I’d see that since I’m wearing Laliari’s special hideous glasses. (You know, I’ll give them this — they really cover your field of vision. I never see the frames.) I doubt Gath’gor is impersonating anyone Frank knows well. He’s probably got his hands (or whatever) full just trying to act like a human, let alone one trying to win a Frank’s Personal History trivia contest. And I know Frank and Elliot have worked together before.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” says Elliot. He goes to a locked filing cabinet and pulls out unbound copies of the scripts in file folders. He hands me half. “You can use Rosalin’s desk. She’s got an appointment with her dentist this morning.”

Rosalin Leon is the other main writer for _Galaxy Quest_. She, Frank, and Elliot write about two-thirds of the scripts themselves. The rest are farmed out, usually to established science fiction writers.

Rosalin and Elliot both have ancient, beat up, roll-top desks. They’ve been placed back-to-back near the window. This means I can use the Palm to double-check the scripts without Elliot seeing.

I start with “Return to Planet Amexon.” It’s one of my favorites. Rosalin wrote this one, and it inspired me to write my very first fanfic, so it has a special place in my heart. I don’t find any changes from the script on my PDA. Of course, it’s not exactly the way I remember seeing the episode, either. Things change at every stage between the script and the final cut. I’m amused to see that the whole bit about Tawny being fooled by her dreams of the Mak’Tar deities, Ipthar and Warvan, wasn’t in there. She knows that it’s a trap, but she plays along with it in order to find out who’s behind it.

I put “Amexon” aside and pick up the next one. “The Mists of Delos 5” — a classic. The whole Tawny/Taggart thing started because of this episode. (Lazarus/Taggart got its start with “Escape from Tev’Meck” when Taggart bravely confronts Lazarus in the midst of his vengeance rage and calms him to the point where he can again listen to reason. Good stuff.) The Tawny/Taggart camp insists that the mists didn’t make their pair want each other, it allowed them to act on desires that were already there. Because of the mists, the inhabitants of Delos 5 are engaged in an almost constant orgy for a week or so every three years. This one’s by Heinlein, of course. I’ve got nothing against some classic Heinlein. Like most polys, I’ve read quite a few of his books. I just think he overestimates the sexiness of constant lectures about personal responsibility.

This script is also full of the kinds of “errors” we found in “The Mystery of Stasis” last night. I show it to Elliot.

“'Mists' hasn’t even been edited yet,” he says. “I was going to read through it with Rosalin today.”

“So it came from Heinlein this way,” I say.

“Must have,” says Elliot. He gets up and digs through the filing cabinet some more. He pulls out the show’s “bible.” He skims it and puts it back. He gets on his phone and tells someone he needs a new copy of the freelance writers’ guide for _Galaxy Quest_ printed up.

We check all of the scripts done by freelancers. They’re all compromised, so to speak. Elliot buys Frank’s hypothesis — someone is trying to make extra work for everyone.

My hypothesis is that Gath’gor is just throwing in everything he can think of, hoping that something gets through and screws up the Thermians’ _Protector_.

I set aside “The Mists of Delos 5,” pick up the next script — “The Alpha Beta Directive” — and get back to work. No matter what, I have to make sure every script is 100% what it should be.

Over the next few days, Elliot sends out new bibles to the freelancers, and he and Rosalin edit the incorrect scripts. I double-check everything before it goes to the typists, and once again when it comes back. I’ll keep doing that for the entire season, but I guess Gath’gor gave up trying to change the scripts because the rest are fine.

But that doesn’t mean he gave up entirely.

Frank gets a call from Matt Sweeney, the special effects guy. Someone tampered with the model of the _Protector_. Frank and I go look at it.

It’s bad. Like, no one would not know that this thing has been fucked with, bad.

“Is that… Is that _Play-Doh_?” I ask.

“Yeah, I think it is,” says Sweeney.

It’s been sort of blobbed on here and there and poorly smoothed out, trying to make the proportions of the ship look thicker in places. It’s not even painted. It’s just white Play-Doh.

“Is it badly damaged?” asks Frank.

“No,” says Sweeney. “It’ll come right off. We may need to touch up the paint. It’s more of an annoying prank than anything else. It’s just… after you told me what happened with the scripts, I thought you should know.”

The sets are next. Somehow Gath’gor managed to switch the original plans out. There are only four monitors over the background consoles. The helm has a _steering wheel_ — not even an aircraft yoke — just a steering wheel like some dude would put in his custom van. The commander’s chair is directly behind the communications and science stations instead of in the middle where every c.o. in the history of science fiction has ever sat.

It’s all such annoying bullshit. I seriously wonder if our boy Gath’gor isn’t a few pups short of a pack. He’s smart enough to sneak in and mess with plans, but too stupid to do anything that wouldn’t be caught five minutes later.

He manages to create some extra work and chaos is all. I mean, it feeds into the belief that someone is trying to sabotage the show, but I can’t see how it could be accomplishing his real task.

Then it’s on to props. The ion nebulizers are made without blaster caps. The voxes won’t stay closed. The costumes come back with no zippers — Frank loses his shit on that one. He has a thing for zippers.

The whole mess puts everyone on edge.

In the meantime, I feel useless and in the way. Between OSHA and the unions, there’s a bunch of rules about who can do what on the set. So I’m just there every day, kind of annoying everyone. Which is why I’m standing around next to a table holding finished props, fiddling with one of the ion nebulizers, when I notice it. There’s two lights on the left side of the nebulizer, above where a thumb would rests when someone is gripping it. There’s supposed to be three.

“There’s supposed to be three lights on the side of the nebulizers,” I say.

“What?” asks Linda. Linda DeScenna is the production designer. It’s her job to oversee costumes, sets, props — everything that you see around the actors — making sure that everything looks right and falls within the budget. She is super unhappy with the current situation.

“There’s supposed to be three lights here — a red one, a blue one, and a clear one. They only have the red one and the clear one,” I say.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Linda. She pulls out a binder with copies of the specifications for the assorted props. She flips to the nebulizers and shows it to me. “See? Two lights.”

I look. Two lights. All of the nebulizers on the table are lying on their left sides. I flip them over. Two of them have three lights. The rest have two.

“Crap,” says Linda. She picks up one of the three-light nebulizers and compares it to a two-light nebulizer. She jiggles the three-light. “This must be one of the originals,” she says.

Most of the props and furniture used on _Galaxy Quest_ came from a movie called _Invasion of the Lunar Lemurs_. It’s about a bunch of giant sentient lemurs who evolved super fast after being left behind when humans had to abandon an experimental moon base decades before.

For some reason, there were only two pistol-like weapons made for that movie, so the props department made more for _Galaxy Quest_. The new ones only have two lights.

“I’ll talk to Frank, but I think we’ll just have to stick with the new ones,” she says. “Only use the old ones in a pinch, and only shoot them from the right side.”

“Three looks better than two,” I point out.

“Yes, I know three looks better, but we’re already strapped for time and cash,” says Linda.

I mean, she’s right. And I can’t just say that the lives of the Thermians and six actors may be riding on even the smallest detail. In fact, I’m sure they’re riding on this particular detail.

Anyone who had even glanced at the original nebulizers would notice the missing blast cap — and it had been poorly erased from the design drawing and a note had been scribbled on it to skip the caps — but these little lights were easy to overlook. I bet the blue light had been much more carefully erased too.

This was Gath’gor’s plan all along, I realize. Keep us so busy with what looked like half-assed attempts at sabotage that we didn’t notice the real, very subtle sabotage.

I let it go. I’ll talk to Frank myself tonight, and I really don’t need Linda pissed off at me (well, more pissed off at me). There are three theories running around the set as to the reason I’m here. There’s the one that takes Frank’s assertions at face value — I’m a consultant making sure that the tech is realistic. I don’t think many people are buying that one. There’s Elliot’s theory — I’m a private eye attempting to catch the saboteur. That one’s closest to the truth, but it’s not very popular either. Then there’s the one that most people, including Linda, subscribe to — I’m banging Frank, so he made up a job for me. You can see why Linda might resent me when I find more ways to spend her meager budget.

It turns out I don’t need to get Frank to make up an excuse. The plans went to the manufacturer of the toy line months ago and the molds have already been built. While the cost of the molds doesn’t come out of the series’ budget, it comes out of somewhere and it ain’t cheap. Three lights it is.

Frank and I go back to the set that night. Frank has a bump of cocaine to keep him awake. He offers me some. I’m beginning to think Frank is a bad influence. I decline the offer.

“I’ve got uppers if you prefer,” says Frank, always the good host.

I tell him the truth. “I can’t take uppers. They make my heart race.” Which is why I’m not on Adderall or whatever.

I don’t even drink coffee, although I’m making an exception tonight.

I go over _everything_ , PDA in hand.

The science station has its controls all wrong. I hadn’t noticed it before because the audience can’t see the controls very well over the lip of the station. This is to save money, of course. The controls are nothing more than some dummy buttons and a “screen” that cycles different colored lights on Alex Dane’s face. It’s basically the same as the communications and computer station, but swapped around because Dane is left-handed and because the hope was that on the rare occasions when a glimpse of these stations was shown, they’d look totally different — totally. (Tawny also has some switches beside her screen, while Lazarus has levers.)

A couple of the consoles along the back of the set are both higgledy and piggledy. The controls on the commander’s chair are messed up too.

Frank surveys what looks like a perfectly good set. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me why this is important?” he asks.

“People will die if I don’t get it right,” I say. All of the Thermians, certainly. But what if they can make a ship that works, but not the way they need it to? Fred could die along with the rest of the main cast and some dude I don’t honestly remember except that he screams convincingly.

I test a button on the commander’s chair. It pops right off, and I can see that it’s basically the same as a key on a computer keyboard. So this and the consoles along the back of the set are an easy fix, but the stations will have to be done by one of the stagehands. At least there’s a reasonable excuse. Dr. Lazarus’s left-handedness is a plot point in “Blue Moons of the Wind” and again in “The Bivrakium Element.”

We move on to costumes.

The NSEA seal is wrong. There are thirteen stars instead of twelve.

“How could that possibly make a difference?” asks Frank.

“You got me,” I reply. “But believe me when I tell you someone in the audience will notice. That seal is everywhere.”

Frank nods. “All the merchandise. Everything.”

Luckily, they’re just patches. It’s more money and time wasted, but not as much as there would be if the embroidery had been done directly to the costumes.

We go check the model of the _Protecter_. It is utterly fucked up. It looks beautiful, but every measurement is off. The whole thing is a couple inches too long and a couple inches too narrow. The command module sits too high. The nacelles are coming off the main body of the ship too low. The portholes aren’t where they belong.

Frank looks at me in horror. He knows I’ve got to fix it. He knows that he can’t just tell Sweeney to change what looks like a perfectly good model. He knows the money isn’t there.

“Is it insured, Frank?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah,” he says.

“You’ve got two hours to establish an alibi,” I say.

We go back to costumes. I grab a pair of dark pants and a dressmaker’s dummy and stuff the legs of the pants with some space armor. We put the whole thing in the passenger seat of Frank’s car and buckle it in. Frank manages to attach a fake head from props with a couple of zip ties. We throw a blanket over the dummy and put a Mank’Nar wig on the head. I’m thrilled that my hair looks exactly like a Mank’Nar’s, let me tell you. But it looks pretty close to Frank’s usual passenger, asleep, which is how I usually am when we leave the lot.

I wait in one of the many cabinets in props, playing Brickshooter on the Palm until I hear security check the room. Once the guard is good and gone, I take a hacksaw to the _Protector_.

 

If everyone was on edge before, they’re doubly so after that. Nobody looks into it too hard, though. Everyone knows we have a vandalism problem. Slightly more people move into the “Ms. Zimmerman is a P.I.” camp.

And if he didn’t already, I’m pretty sure Gath’gor now knows that someone is actively thwarting him.

I start coming in with Elliot at 5:30 every morning to check the sets, _et cetera_. Nothing has been tampered with recently, but shooting begins soon. I expect Gath’gor will start making trouble again once it does.

About a week before shooting begins, Linda calls me to Makeup. I see Alexander Dane waiting outside. His light brown hair has been dyed black, and he’s rather strikingly young — maybe 25. (Although he’s already getting a start on that crease between his eyebrows.) This is the first time it occurs to me that the whole cast is much younger than I am right now. Fred’s the oldest, and I bet he’s barely 30. Anyway — Alexander’s wearing headphones plugged into a transistor radio. I don’t know what station he’s listening to, but his eyes are closed and he’s air-conducting. Rather vigorously. It’s a little cute, actually.

He opens his eyes and startles slightly when he sees me. I wave in what I hope is a friendly, carry-on-enjoying-yourself manner. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all, just closes his eyes again.

Okey-doke.

“It’s wrong,” says Linda, gesturing to the prosthetic appliance sitting on its form.

“It sure is,” I say. I think Linda’s decided that whatever my function here may be, it’s just easier to keep me in the loop.

Anyway, the prosthetic has feathers.

“How many times is it mentioned that the Mak’Tar are descended from an aquatic species?” she asks.

“Twice in the premier and again in ‘Amexon,’” I say. She also uses me as her walking script bible.

“That’s what I thought,” says Dorothy, the makeup artist. “But Stan said that we got new instructions last week to change it.”

“And he didn’t think to check with Frank or me?” asks Linda.

“The memo came from Mr. Ross,” says Dorothy.

“He never said anything to me,” says Linda.

“Me either,” I reply.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” says Linda. She turns back to Dorothy. “In the meantime, did Stan make a fish one?”

“It’s based on a seahorse, but yeah, we made it,” says Dorothy. “We kept it in case it could be used on another character down the line.”

That’s when Alex appears at the door. “Ladies,” he drawls. (He sounds like a 45 record of Sir Alec Guinness slowed down to 33 rpm.) “Some of us have appointments to keep. I’m scheduled to meet with the writers at two.”

What the hell? Does he think nobody else has shit to do? (I mean, to be fair, Elliot will absolutely be pissy if Dane’s late, but still.)

Dorothy rolls her eyes at him.

Linda glares something larger than daggers at him — short swords, maybe?

Dane notices the prosthetic.

“That won’t do at all,” he says, and I’m pretty sure he actually _tuts_. “You can’t simply make him avian on a whim. A significant portion of my preparation for this role involves the marine nature of the character.”

He has a right to be upset — I’ve written Dr. Lazarus before, and his non-human biology is important to the character — but suddenly I’m in no mood to listen to some condescending twit go on about Stanislavski in the Queen’s English, no matter how sexy his voice is.

“Sorry.” says Linda. “There was a mix-up is all. We’ll get the right appliance, do the test and get you out of here in plenty of time. Lord knows the last thing I need today, or any day, is Elliot riding my ass.”

Dorothy grabs the form with its feathered skull-cap and heads off to Special Effects.

“Is the environment here always so disorganized?” he asks.

“We’ve had some problems with minor vandalism,” I say.

“I see, Miss er…”

“Zimmerman,” I say. “ _Ms_. Zimmerman.”

“My apologies, _Ms_. Zimmerman,” he says in that way that actually means I’m sorry that you’re so tetchy. “What, exactly, do you do here?”

“I’m a technology consultant,” I say, practically daring him to make something of it.

“And you are being consulted on whether my prosthetic properly represents the evolution of the Mak’Tar species?” he asks.

I’ve never met someone so majestically sarcastic in my life.

“Yes,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. I mean, I am doing just that, more or less.

I find myself hoping that when the others explain to him why I’m “really” here, he’ll believe that I’m not another one of Frank’s girlfriends. Although why I should care at this point is beyond me.

When Dorothy returns with the familiar head of Dr. Lazarus, I do check it over thoroughly while she preps Dane’s face. It’s an amazing piece, really. Stan Winston designed it himself. (He wasn’t a such a huge deal then. Everybody’s gotta start somewhere, and Stan started on _Galaxy Quest_.) I’ve already checked the appliance against a picture on the Palm, but much of the detail doesn’t really come through what with the low resolution and the tiny screen. It’s one of the many times I’ve wished I were an artist — I bet Shondra knows exactly how many gill ridges this thing should have.

“Well?” asks Dane.

“A cross between a murex and an abalone shell,” I say. “It’s subtle. It reads ‘alien’ first, but once you see the molluscine influence, you can’t unsee it.” Two can play the big words game. I hand it to Dorothy. I almost add that the color suits him too, but I change my mind.

Really, it seems fine. Just to be sure, I come back later once the makeup is done and they’re photographing Dane.

He has slipped entirely into his character. He moves differently — deliberately, with more dignity and gravitas. He looks 10 years older — a being weighted with sorrow, constantly mourning the loss of his people. He is alone in the universe except for the handful of friends he has found on the _Protector_ , the only home he has. It is his honor to defend both with his life.

“How did it go?” I ask Dorothy.

“He’s silent and stand-offish, but he holds still and turns his head the way you tell him to, so it didn’t take long. In other words, he’s a bit of a conceited prick, but he’s also a cooperative prick,” she says.

I watch him try out a few more expressions. “I suppose he’s got something to be conceited about,” I say. I get no pleasure from knowing what time is going to do that arrogance.

Over the next few days, I meet the others as they come in for their makeup tests and readings and costume fittings and conversations with the writers/producers/whatever.

There’s surprisingly little fussing with Gwen Demarco’s hair. A bit of an iron and a fluff, and it’s good to go. It’s naturally that good. Or her regular hairdresser is. It’s not my business. Costuming takes longer. Gotta get that bodysuit to conform to those boobs just right. Too tight and they’ll be squashed and look (gasp!) smaller, too loose and the audience may not see them jiggle, but they can’t jiggle too much because it’s a nine o’clock time slot. (This reminds me of my own time as a costumer. We were doing some tights-and-tunics play and the leading man had simply enormous equipment. The director kept complaining that it was distracting – which honestly, it was – but we just couldn’t seem to restrain the thing or camouflage it. I’ve had entire relationships where I spent less time thinking about some dude’s dick and how it looked.)

Jason Nesmith is… surprisingly sweet. At first, anyway. It takes a while for his inner asshole to emerge. Even though I’m not fond of celebrity gossip (It feels like prying from afar, and I really hate prying.), I’ve heard about the drama between him and his co-stars — mainly because he didn’t seem to want co-stars as much as he wanted supporting cast. But right now, like the rest, he’s just happy to be getting what might be his big break. And he’s more than a little geeked about doing science fiction. He’s worked with Frank before. He did the original _West Quest_ pilot before the studio nixed that idea. His hair, by the way, is a pain in the ass. The mullet, it turns out, is not a low-maintenance style.

Tommy Weber won’t be around for a while yet. The original helmsman of the _Protector_ was actually a woman — an actress named Shelley McMillan. She got pregnant, and in those days you could still get fired for that, especially when the producer decides that you and the star have a little too much chemistry and he doesn’t want Taggart tied down to a love interest. Frank gets the brilliant idea that the show needs a kid. Everyone else is thinking a fresh-faced, 18-year-old cadet straight out of the National Space Academy. Frank literally means a kid, of course. It doesn’t hurt that if there’s a kid, then there’s a mom. Letitia Lavigne has been angling for a role, and since she actually is banging Frank and can actually act, she gets one. Anyway, Tommy Weber, when he does show up, is a bit of an imp. But he soon gloms onto Jason, so when Jason tells him it’s time to settle down to business, Tommy pretty much does. His real mom, Nina, is a quiet person until she thinks Tommy’s being taken advantage of, then she goes all mama carnivore. She is particularly insistent that Tommy receive a good education, so he’s with his tutors most of the time he not in front of the cameras.

Fred is there too, but I can’t see him. If you’re wondering how that works, it’s like this — if Fred’s having a meeting with Elliot, I suddenly can’t find the writers’ room. Or I forget that I was going there. It’s the same for Fred, by the way. He tells me about it later. He got a bit of a reputation for being too stoned to find the set even though he made it a point not to smoke during production. Also, he can’t remember the name of that woman people keep mentioning who is probably dipping Frank’s wick so that he’ll give her a job as a private investigator, or some such similarly confusing story.

That makes things difficult because it means I can’t be on the set much during the day. And Gath’gor’s still at it, in a low-key kind of way.

Elliot and I are still the first ones to come into work every day. (Elliot says he just likes to get some work done while things are still quiet. Rosalin comes in at eight o’clock, but if a writer needs to stay late, she usually does it.) I check all of the consoles and the monitors on the command deck set before the crew gets there. That way, I can quickly straighten them out without involving anyone else. I’m trying to keep my reputation for being a fussbudget to a minimum. Gath’gor likes to switch the buttons and the monitor overlays around. He does the same thing in Dr. Lazarus’s laboratory and the engine room. These are the only sets that are set up more or less permanently, the rest do double (or triple or quadruple) duty. The rec room is also the mess hall, the main barracks, and the surface pod launch bay. The digital conveyor room is also the meeting room and the armory. All of the crew quarters are one room with different furniture. I check whatever’s set up that day but those sets will already be swarming with stage crew doing the exact same thing, so if something’s off, well then, I just have to be a fussbudget, don’t I?

Around eight or nine o’clock, I head to the writers’ room where I check scripts or help Elliot and Rosalin with preliminary read-throughs. Afterward, we get some lunch and I try to cadge a nap wherever I can. Tawny’s Tauren pleasure bed is surprisingly comfy for something that’s just a set dressing.

In the afternoon, I check in with Linda and Frank, then Matt in special effects. He’s become much more of a stickler about security — who could blame him? He insists that extra CC cameras be installed throughout the department. The voxes and the nebulizers in particular are regularly tampered with. He keeps them in a safe now.

I also watch anything that’s been filmed that day. For one thing, it’s the only way to see scenes with Fred in them. As the ship’s engineer basically, the things he says provide useful clues to the Thermians trying to build a real _Protector_. I need to make sure they’re right. They always are. Fred has an amazing capacity for remembering techno-gibberish.

For the most part, Gath’gor hasn’t done anything drastic since filming began. I’m not sure if this is because of a lack of opportunity or what. He’s obviously still a threat, or I wouldn’t be here.

The stress is getting to me. I spend all day at the studio, looking over my shoulder, checking and double-checking everything — all while trying to keep anyone from seeing the Palm up close. The fact that I’m well-known for carrying a “calculator” on my person at all times provides an additional clue in everyone’s favorite guessing game, but I’m petrified that I’ll forget something without all of my lists and notes and diagrams.

And then the actor drama starts. Jason Nesmith is one of those guys who thinks on-set pranks are hilarious. Alexander Dane is not. In fact, all pranks directed at him are met with imaginative and pointedly drastic retribution (along with a firmly-worded cease and desist) — a fact which Nesmith manages to forget every few weeks. Nesmith puts a prop that looks like his own severed head on Dane’s makeup table. Dane puts a life-sized zombie dummy, complete with fake blood and an eyeball hanging out of its socket in a chair in Nesmith’s trailer. He positions it carefully so that the light from outside falls on the eye-socket side of the face as soon as Nesmith opens the door. Rumor has it Nesmith pees himself. Dane keeps the head until someone from props has to go take it back from him. He dubs it Nesmick, and he soliloquizes to it — “Alas poor Nesmick! He is an annoying prat.”

And Nesmith is trying to get into Gwen Demarco’s panties. It’s well-known that her marriage to Pete Trip of the The Trip Brothers Band is on the rocks — kind of like Pete’s career. (As the ‘70’s draw to a close, songs about the monumental amount of drugs you’re doing just lose their luster. Who knew that shit wouldn’t stay Top 40 material forever?) Nesmith seems to vacillate between genuine concern for Gwen’s well-being and smarmy attempts to bed her.

I’ll give him this though – he goes out of his way to treat the crew with respect and kindness. I’ve never really gotten the guy before, and now that we’ve met, I still don’t get him, but there’s that.

Dane continues to needle me for no reason —

“Ms. Zimmerman, out for your morning skulk, I see.” Dane catches me on the way to check out the laboratory set. He’s leaning on the wall outside of makeup, arms folded across his chest and that crooked little smirk of his playing across his lips. He and the aliens of the week have first makeup call.

“Mr. Dane. Please, don’t let me keep you from your much-needed makeover,” I say.

“Not at all, Ms. Zimmerman. We are hosting a large-ish contingent of Mank’Nar this week, and one of the makeup techs is ill. I’m completely at liberty to detain you from your mysterious duties for at least another 15 minutes.”

“Mysterious or not,” I say, “they are both more pressing and more interesting than loitering in a hallway with you.”

“You know, one could get frostbite in your company,” he says, still with that little smile, and I can feel my own mouth trying to quirk in response.

“I can’t help it if you don’t even have enough sense not to go out in the cold.”

My time away from the studio is mostly spent fretting about what’s happening at the studio. I try to find ways to relax. I cook. I bake. I read. I find a used record store nearby, and I’ve bought tons of 45’s and albums. The stereo also has a reel-to-reel player, and I’ve picked up a few of those too. Mostly, I’ve used it to make mixtapes. In the evenings, I put one on or queue up a bunch of the 45’s and sing along while I make dinner. It makes me feel a little better. Then I have a wank (or a little pot) at bedtime to help me sleep.

Then I get up and do it all again.

“Got plans for the weekend?” I ask Elliot on Friday morning, once we’re on the freeway, of course.

“Not really,” says Elliot. “You?”

“Sleep,” I say. “Same as usual.”

“You’ve been here four months now. You never go out. I’m beginning to think maybe you are messing around with Frank.”

“You never have plans for the weekend,” I say. “I don’t assume that _you’re_ messing around with Frank.”

Elliot shakes his head. “Honestly, these days, I don’t think even Frank has time to mess around with Frank.”

I see Alexander Dane hanging around outside of makeup on my way to the command deck set. I notice the black dye has grown out of his hair and it’s light brown again.

“ _Ms_. Zimmerman,” he says, emphasis on the Ms. as if to remind me that he disapproves of bra-burning women’s libbers.

“Mr. Dane,” I reply. “Lying in wait for anyone in particular?”

“No, anyone will do. Even you.”

“Sorry. Only one of us is desperate.”

On the set, the colored buttons on the first, second, and eighth console are wrong. I fix them. The laboratory is fine. The lights on the engineering console aren’t lighting, but someone will catch that and fix it.

I head over to the writers’ room.

“Hey, Mary Sue,” says Rosalin, holding up a script. “Wanna read Chen and Laredo?”

“Sure,” I say.

Together we give “The Doomsday Equation” a going over. It’s never been one of my favorites. Terrakian slave girls are pure fanservice aimed at a demographic entirely different from my own, you know?

“Oof,” says Rosalin. “Needs some work.”

“Yeah, it’s not my cup of tea either,” says Elliot, making a face at the offending script. “But we’ve got to pull in the teenage and young adult guys. All of that disposable income makes our advertisers drool.”

“Nice visual,” I say, pushing my glasses up onto the top of my head and rubbing my eyes.

One of the maintenance guys pokes his head in. He’s kind of tall and muscular and has dark hair. I don’t recognize him, but then my glasses are still pushed up.

“I… Uh… Sorry. I… thought you guys had gone to lunch. Thought I’d stop in and… see if the trash needed to be done.”

“Hey, Steve,” says Elliot, glancing at the two waste paper baskets. “It’s no problem. We’re good.”

“Okay,” says Steve.

“That was weird,” says Elliot after the door closes. “I wonder what got into him?”

“Who knows?” says Ros. “Let’s eat before I pass out.”

We get some lunch.

I wander around the set, checking to make sure that someone has noticed the malfunctioning console in engineering, watching the crew put the digital conveyor room together, checking the environment suits to make sure no one’s tampered with them since the last time they were used.

I watch what’s been filmed that day plus the final edit of “The Lights of Aldea.” I like “Aldea” — it’s one of the few times that Chen gets a romantic storyline — but it makes me miss Fred.

Frank and I actually leave at seven o’clock that night — pretty early, unheard of really on a Friday.

Tomorrow is Saturday — cleaning day. I’ve told Frank that it helps me think, but the truth is I don’t want the maids from the service finding — anything, really. I usually listen to the NPR lineup and clean the guest house top to bottom. Just like at home, I have a list of chores so that I don’t forget any of it, but this one is on the Palm instead of taped to my back door (and covered by a curtain because people think it’s weird and I got tired of explaining it).

Anyway, I set some rye bread with caraway seeds for tomorrow morning. I thread up a mix tape to listen to while I make myself some carbonara.

I grab a shower before bed.

And that’s it. That’s every day since filming began.

I must admit, I didn’t expect my adventure to be so grinding. I never know when or where to expect Gath’gor’s next move, so I just have to be looking for it everywhere.

And then there’s the fear of not knowing what happens if I fail. I mean beyond the Thermians being wiped out, which is bad enough. Do I go back to Fred and Laliari anyway? Will there be a point where they never come back in time to send me back in time? Will I be stuck here? Will there be a moment when I know I’ve failed? What happens if I just live in the past until it loops back around to when I left? Why did the writers of _Time Tripper_ never do these storylines? Cowards.

Also, I really miss my cat.

And my dudes.

But my real life is kind of on hold. I said I was going away for the weekend, and that’s going to be what really happens — for everyone but me. So thinking wistfully about how Trent and Gunner and Lola are doing is silly, really. (Trent and Gunner are two of my boyfriends. Lola’s the cat. Trent is feeding Lola while I’m at con.)

And this ambiguity goes on for _months_.

Maybe I’ve failed already.

 

The holidays roll around. That means a short break in production. Frank decides to throw a Christmas Eve party. Nothing fancy — mostly members of the cast and crew that won’t be with their families — Gwen, who has just filed for divorce and who doesn’t want to spend her holidays listening to her mom tell her that she told her so; Alex, who mentioned that he would not be gracing the shores of Britain this year; and Elliot, who’s Jewish and has nothing better to do since his parents live in Cleveland and Chanukah ended on the 22nd this year. According to Elliot, Mrs. Spiegel’s latkes are worth going home for, but Cleveland’s Peking duck, not so much.

There’s only about two dozen people on the guest list — which is good because that’s about how many people you can squeeze into two tiny houses, and it’s supposed to be rainy and chilly that day (or practically arctic, depending on whether you’re actually from Southern California, which I grant you, nobody is), so there won’t be much partying out on the decks.

Frank hauls some Christmas decorations out of the rafters in the garage. Most of the decorations are from the ‘40’s and ‘50’s. Frank says they were his mom’s. He and I and Ingelill put them up. We decorate a tree in the main house, but there’s no room for one in the guest house. I wrap some lights around a wreath and hang it over the fireplace. We hang some swags around the doors. Frank’s mom was very into Snowbabies. We line them up on the mantels. Ingelill puts a few potted poinsettias around and we call it a day. I’d kind of forgotten how people used to stop decorating before the house reached the Christmas explosion stage. I buy a velvet skirt for the party. It reminds me of one I had my freshman year of high school that I only got to wear once before I had a growth spurt.

I do the cooking — simple stuff like crostini with goat cheese and roasted red peppers, and cups of root vegetable soup with a dollop of crème fraîche on top because goat cheese, roasted peppers, and crème fraîche are still somewhat swanky in 1979. (Actually, crème fraîche may still be swanky in 1999.) I do a cheese and fruit board and a couple of crudité platters. (You can call it a veggie platter, but everything sounds more exciting in French.) There’s no room to sit down and eat, so I stick to things that can be carried around. I bake some cookies for dessert. Ingelill handles the wine. Frank handles the… other refreshments.

I’d rather be at the studio, but all the busywork helps keep my mind off it. Because once I start trying to figure out what Gath’gor is up to, my brain starts chasing its tail and tangling itself in the thread of my thoughts. Pot helps. Not too much though — for me it’s a thin line between being relaxed and spending four hours appreciating the deeper nuances of the Birthday Song.

So anyway, there’s a Christmas party and people are wandering in and out of the guest house and the main house, and they’re hanging out on the main deck off the kitchen despite the cold because that one has an awning to block the rain. Most of the guests are in some state of inebriation. Gwen’s in my living room, shitfaced on banana daiquiris and singing along to “Heart of Glass.” I have no doubt that I’ll be holding her hair back before the night’s over.

Some dude informs me that he’s on the Atkins diet and wants to know if I have anything he can eat. I give him the leftover goat cheese and some celery sticks. I go check my bedroom again. I had to shoo a horny couple off the bed earlier. There’s definitely another horny couple in my bathroom. They’re obviously both women or just one woman who masturbates loudly at parties? Nope, it’s two ladies. Unless there’s someone out there who can masturbate in stereo. Whatever, at least they won’t be leaving semen on the bathmat.

I step out onto the bedroom’s private deck (which also has an awning) and light a joint.

“Hello.”

I recognize Alexander Dane’s voice right away. He has a voice like a sticky toffee pudding — warm, dark, rich, and extremely British.

“Hi,” I say, since we’re apparently not being formal tonight. Or unnecessarily adversarial.

“Forgive me for intruding,” he says, waving a hand toward the upper part of the little house. “The madding crowd and all that.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Truthfully, I find it irritating, myself.” I take a drag off the joint and pass it to him. Hey, it’s Christmas, right?

“Hence coming down here for a smoke.” He puts the joint to his lips and I try to pretend that doesn’t kind of turn me on — watching him put his lips where mine have been. He has an incredibly sexy mouth — thin enough to be patrician, but still full enough to be kissable. Like the rest of him, it’s a challenge and a reward all in one.

While I’m lost in this reverie, he leans against the rail of the deck and blows smoke toward the lights of L.A.

“You and I got off on the wrong foot,” he says. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to rectify the situation.”

I nod. “I’d like that,” I say, taking the joint back from him.

“You would?” He sounds surprised.

“Mr. Dane, I know you’ve just been fucking around with me, and I hope you know I’ve just been fucking around back.”

“Hmph.” He smiles and shakes his head. “I enjoy sparring with you, I’ll admit. But I’d prefer that it not be our only form of interaction.”

We trade the joint back and forth for a few more minutes. I’m feeling happy and friendly. I can’t remember why I though it was appropriate to keep him at a distance. Maybe I thought he was keeping me there.

When I hand him the joint again, I say, “It occurs to me that you’re here, practically on the other side of the world from your home and everyone you know. It can’t be easy.”

He takes the joint carefully from my hand. “It occurs to me that you’re in much the same boat,” he says.

I nod, acknowledging the truth of this. And then some, I think.

“Friends, then?” he asks.

“Friends,” I say, smiling and shaking his hand.

“Does this mean I can start calling you ‘Mary Sue?’” he asks, looking at L.A. again.

“Please do,” I say. “You sound like a nest of angry bees when you say, ‘Mizzzzzz Zzzzzzzimmerman.’”

He laughs. “Call me ‘Alex’ then.”

“Okay… Alex.”

We stay down there for a few more minutes, smoking and watching the city lights. When the ladies come out of the bathroom, I see that there were actually three of them. I wonder how they fit in there even though they obviously like each other.

I figure it out later that night when I notice the shower curtain open and my shampoo lying on the tiles — two-thirds of the bottle already oozing down the drain.

When we get back upstairs, Gwen has moved on to a tearful rendition of “The Rose.” I head on over to the main house to let Ingelill know that the never-ending daiquiri fountain needs to dry up. I find her on the main deck, leaning a little blearily against Frank. Letitia is leaning less blearily against his other side. Frank is blissed out with an arm around both of them. They look very sweet right now, but I know Ingelill will bow out of their little trio soon. I let them know that Gwen is getting close to the alcohol poisoning portion of the evening. Elliot’s also on the main deck. He says he’ll go check on her.

I wander through the party, nibbling a sugar cookie. It’s my sixth one. If I keep this up, somebody will be holding _my_ hair back. I do not have a light hand when it comes to frosting sugar cookies. I finally wash up in the kitchen of the main house with Alex and Elliot. Gwen’s also there, sipping water and rubbing her face like a kitten who doesn’t want to go to sleep.

“Hey, Mary Shue,” she says. “You have an aweshome record collecshun.” Cute. She sounds like Carol Channing when she’s drunk.

“Hey Gwen,” I say. “Thanks.”

“It is rather impressive,” says Alex. “So few people bother with reel-to-reel anymore.” Gwen sort of slouches into him and he puts an arm around her to hold her steady.

I shrug. “It’s what was in the house,” I say, “and it’s a good format for classical music, not that I listen to much classical. I prefer what I can sing along to.”

That’s when Frank pokes his head in through the doorway. He’s looking very serious for a guy hosting a party.

“Mary Sue, there you are. I need you to come with me. You too, Elliot.”

This does not sound good.

We follow Frank down to his office. Ingelill’s there, wide awake now.

“I just got a call. There’s been a fire at the studio,” says Frank.

Those sugar cookies start fomenting a rebellion.

“It wasn’t a big one — some set dressings were destroyed, but they’re covered by insurance,” he adds.

“What’s this going to do to our chances for renewal, though?” asks Elliot.

Fuck! I hadn’t even thought of that. I remember the letter-writing campaign to get _Galaxy Quest_ into syndication. Part of the reason why stations had been reluctant to air it was because there were too few episodes. Most shows need to run at least four seasons to have enough episodes to make it worth the stations’ while. It had been a push to convince them that the audience was there for a show with only 91 episodes (technically 92, but the cliff-hanging season three finale wasn’t part of the package.) If _Galaxy Quest_ doesn’t get renewed, there’ll be no syndication, and the Thermians will never see it.

“ _Galaxy Quest_ is still making money,” says Frank. “The suits will tell you — the only thing that matters is the bottom line.”

Elliot snorts at this.

I may be new, but even I know that emotions play a bigger role than business types like to admit, particularly when the profit margin is thin.

Okay, there’s not a damn thing I can do about that. Or, I should say, I’ve already done what I could. I spent my time in the letter-writing trenches, both when it looked like _Galaxy Quest_ might not get renewed and when it looked like we’d never get the reruns.

Right now, I need to concentrate on stopping Gath’gor, not just running around behind him fixing things.

Frank goes on — “Here’s the kicker, though. When security went over the surveillance video, they saw the guy setting the fire.”

“Great!” say Elliot.

“It was me,” says Frank.

“Just like it was you who approved of changing Lazarus’s head,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Frank. “And there’ve been others. People saying they thought they saw me where I wasn’t.”

“So it’s someone who looks like Frank?” says Ingelill.

“Someone who just wanders around impersonating him all day?” I shake my head. “I mean, he’s definitely trying to make it look like Frank is sabotaging his own show, but it’s someone who _can_ look like Frank.”

“There can’t be that many people on the set with that kind of technical expertise,” says Elliot. “We should be able to figure out who it is.”

Of course _I_ know it’s Gath’gor using an appearance generator, not some special effects wizard with a bizarre agenda.

“It’s not one of the cast or crew,” I say. “Frank invited anyone who so much as hinted at having nowhere to go for the holidays. Everybody had to know that he’d have an iron-clad alibi for tonight.”

“We really should have hired you to look for plot-holes, Mary Sue,” says Elliot.

Ingelill looks puzzled. She’s not on set enough to have heard the competing theories, I guess. As far as she knows, I _am_ there to look for plot holes.

“But it’s also someone who can wander around without attracting attention,” I say. “Wander around _at night_ without attracting attention,” I add.

“Security,” says Ingelill.

“A security guy with makeup expertise?” says Elliot.

“Why not?” asks Ingelill. “Many people will take any job at a studio hoping to break into show business.”

The look she gives Frank is significant, to say the least. I remember that she auditioned for the role of Tawny Madison.

“I can’t just go to the head of security with some cockamamie theory about one of his staff trying to screw over _Galaxy Quest_ disguised as me,” says Frank. “Even though I think you’re 100 percent right, Lill.

“Maybe the best way to catch him, is to catch him,” I say.

“Huh?” says Frank.

“I know what stuff he likes to mess with. I could stay overnight and watch for him.”

“You?” says Elliot.

“Frank can’t do it,” I say. “He can’t risk being seen sneaking around the set at night. Nobody else really knows what’s going on. I’m the logical choice.”

“And if you catch him red-handed, then what?!” asks Elliot.

Then I take or destroy that damned appearance generator, that’s what. I can’t hurt him and he can’t hurt me, but I can ruin his disguise.

“I’ll call security,” I say.

“That might work,” says Frank.

“What the hell, Frank!” Elliot yells. “You can’t send her in there alone to confront some maniac!”

“Chivalry, Elliot?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t send a guy in there either, especially one who’s 5’4” and weighs, what 125 pounds?”

“150, give or take, and I almost believed you weren’t being chivalrous.”

“I’m coming too,” says Elliot.

It’s not a bad idea. Elliot’s a regular Mighty Mouse. The reason he has a wrestler’s build is that he used to wrestle, and he still works out.

“Okay,” I say. “Tomorrow night?”

“Do you think he’ll try something two nights in a row?” asks Frank.

“The lot will be just as deserted tomorrow night as it was tonight,” I point out. “After that, there’ll be more activity.”

“I’ll pick you up at nine,” says Elliot.

 

I end up with Gwen in my bed. She’s thrown up, cleaned up, sobered up (a little), but there’s no way she’s good to drive. A friend of Frank’s from out of town is already staying in the tiny spare bedroom, and Atkins diet guy has claimed the sofa in the main house. The guest house doesn’t even have a sofa. My bed’s a king — I figure I’ll never even notice her there. I underestimated how much room a six-foot tall woman can take up.

Not that I was going to get much sleep anyway.

I spend Christmas Day feeding Gwen and listening to her dissect her failed marriage. I suspect I’m just the right degree of stranger for her to confide in.

“My mom was always against it. Because of the age difference. He was 29. I was 19. She said I was too young to be getting married, especially to someone who was practically old enough to run for the Senate.” Gwen is drinking Perrier and eating one of the grilled cheese sandwiches I made for lunch.

“It’s a big difference when you’re that young,” I say. I mean, no bullshit — her mom was right.

“I know she was right. I just wish I didn’t have to admit it,” says Gwen.

“I know the feeling.” I roll my eyes. Nobody likes having to admit that.

“Just — at the time — it felt great. I really felt like Pete and I were on the same wave-length. I was grown-up, because I had so much in common with this older, famous, artistic guy. I didn’t realize that it wasn’t because I was an old soul. It was because he was still 19 mentally.”

“And then _you_ grew up,” I say.

“Yeah, too bad he didn’t.”

I don’t mind. She needs someone to talk to, poor kid.

I wonder when she went from sophisticated and glamorous to poor kid? Probably since I’ve gotten to know her while I’m thirty-si— seven and she’s 25.

(I left in June of 1999 and arrived in April of 1979. My birthday’s in August, so it must have gone by while I was too busy to notice.)

Anyway, the saga of Gwen and Pete keeps my mind off my nervousness — a little.

Gwen leaves at about two. I get the Palm out to type up last night’s events and to make sure it has a charge. Since I think there’s a very good chance that I might be leaving tonight, I double-check the knapsack and check that everything that needs to be in there is in there. Then I change into the jeans and tee shirt I brought with me. I don’t want to end up in Fred and Laliari’s hotel room naked. That happened on almost every episode of _Time Tripper_ — mainly because the star was hot. As it turns out, 18- to 25-year-old guys aren’t the only demographic with cash.

Elliot, as usual, is there on the dot.

Once we hit the freeway, I outline my basic plan. “I think that the platform that they use to access the lights between the command deck set and the laboratory set would be best. It sits just below the tops of both walls, and we can see the most commonly tampered-with areas from there.”

“How often has this guy tried to sabotage the show?” asks Elliot.

“He tries something most days,” I say. “It’s usually little crap. I just go around behind him and fix it.”

“Is that sort of thing usually within the purview of a private investigator?” asks Elliot.

I laugh. “Look, I can’t help it if the cover story you invented for me doesn’t always fit the available evidence. Try harder next time.”

“Should I believe that you’re actually a consultant?” he asks.

“Why start now?” I counter.

“So, time traveler?”

“Yup,” I say.

“And what’s more, there’s someone actively trying to make sure you fail,” says Elliot. “Another time traveler, no doubt.”

“You’re two for two, El.”

He just sighs and takes the exit.

It’s not fun climbing up to the platform in the almost dark — there’s a couple of security lights is all — but we get into place and wait.

And wait

And… you get the picture.

We’re being silent, and I can’t just whip out the Palm and play a game. The backlight would show. And besides, that would be kind of rude to Elliot.

So we stay awake by nudging each other when it looks like we might drift off.

By the time I’m absolutely positive that Gath’gor a.) decided to destroy something in makeup instead, or b.) is too smart to try shenanigans two nights in a row, I’m swiftly reaching that sick point of exhaustion where your stomach feels weird.

That’s when the door opens, and I see a large, heavyset man framed in the light from the hall.

Elliot checks his watch. I can tell from his face that it’s not time for the regular security check.

The man lets the door shut, and we can hear him walking around. He doesn’t bother with a flashlight. Maybe the Fatu-Krey have good night vision?

Anyway, I’m definitely awake now.

Finally we hear him in the laboratory set. We’ve got a good view of that.

And I get my second gander at a real, live alien.

Elliot whispers, “Gary?”

I have no clue who Gary is, but I’m assuming he’s in security, since that’s how Gath’gor is dressed.

I shake my head no and take off my glasses. I hand them to Elliot. He puts them on and squints. I cup my hand over the left lens. I’m not nearly so short-sighted in my right eye.

Slowly and clearly, Elliot mouths, “Fuck me.”

I take my glasses back and put them on. I can see Gath’gor again plus his disguise sort of laid over that. One thing I notice is that his clothes look solid. It’s at that point that I realize his clothes are real. Laliari’s aren’t. Holy crap, I’ve hugged a naked tentacle lady.

I remind my brain that we have other, more urgent, ideas to contemplate.

Gath’gor has his appearance generator clipped to the left side of his belt. They must need to be out in the open to work, I reason.

I tap Elliot’s shoulder. He looks at me and I point to his belt and then to Gath’gor. Elliot puts his hand to his waist to indicate that he sees it. He leans closer to me.

“When I give the signal,” he makes a thumbs up, “distract him.”

I nod and Elliot disappears over the side of the platform. From Mighty Mouse to Catman. Is there a Catman? Whatever. He’s impressively quiet.

In fact, I have no idea where he is until I suddenly see him peeking around the edge of the set. I look around the platform and see that someone has left one of those black metal shutter dealy-bobs up here.

Okay, lighting is not my thing. I’ve done plenty of sets and props and even some makeup (all of this is stage stuff, not movie stuff, mind you), but lighting is a total mystery to me. Anyway, it looks like it will make a hell of a racket.

I hold it up for Elliot to see. He nods. He starts doing a one-two-three with his fingers. On three, he gives me a thumbs up.

Here’s the thing. I’m not sure what Elliot’s going to do. That’s intentional. I can’t send him to harm Gath’gor. That’s why I just pointed out the appearance generator and let Elliot draw his own conclusions. So when I throw the shutter thing, I’m doing so with the idea that I might want to make Gath’gor leave his left side open because the vague plan is that Elliot will run in there and snatch the appearance generator.

Gath’gor spins toward the sound, and Elliot hits him with a flying tackle, his shoulder directly impacting with the appearance generator.

Gary becomes Frank -- then Steve, the maintenance guy (I think) — before disappearing all together, leaving a large lizard man with some kind of weird articulating antennae in his place.

Gath’gor roars. Pain? Frustration? I have no idea. He clutches the appearance generator, shakes it, and Steve is back.

He crouches and wiggles his fingers in what is apparently the universal signal for “bring it on,” and Elliot brings it on. Gath’Gor has to be seven-foot tall, if he’s an inch. “Steve” is shorter but still a good foot taller than Elliot. This apparently doesn’t matter as Elliot neatly demonstrates that old adage about the bigger falling harder.

Gath’gor stuggles back to his feet and takes a swing at Elliot. It’s comical, almost. He misses Elliot by a country mile, of course, but it’s like his fist jumps at the last second, and Gath’gor barely misses his own nose.

I chuck another shutter behind Gath’gor (I still can’t attack him directly of course.), and scramble down the ladder.

I’m about halfway to Elliot when we hear footsteps running toward us. I freeze. Gath’gor pokes at his appearance generator. For half a second, Frank flickers into Steve’s place, then the generator makes a pinging noise and Steve is back.

Gath’gor says something like, “Nargs toff!” I’m sure it’s quite blasphemous in Fatu-Krey language. He still hasn’t noticed me in the shadows, but Elliot has. He holds up his hand for me to stay put.

Gath’Gor heads for the exit, but two security guards are coming in. One of them recognizes him.

“Steve? You wanna tell me what you’re doing here in the middle of the night on Christmas, wearing a security guard’s uniform?”

I’d love to tell you how all this ends, but I’m already dissolving into gold sparkles.

Elliot was not expecting this. It’s almost as if he didn’t believe me about being a time traveler.

“Sorry, Elliot,” I say. “At least I guess he won’t be bothering you guys any more. Bye.”

And that’s all that I have time for.

Because now I’m back, knapsack at my feet, in an L.A. hotel room with Fred and Laliari.

They’re grinning.

I’m experiencing a bizarre, slightly unpleasant sensation in my head.

They’re still grinning.

The sensation stops.

Fred and Laliari are still right there.

“Why aren’t you guys going anywhere?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” says Fred. He looks at Laliari.

“The only explanation is that Gath’Gor has damaged the timeline again,” says Laliari. “We’ll have to figure out how... and then you’ll have to go back, Mary Sue.”

Well, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drugs -- There's just a lot of pot in this fic. It started because Fred Kwan is quasi-canonically a stoner, and just grew from there. Frank Ross is addicted to hard-core stimulants. Again, this is the only chapter where we actually see him do drugs, but his struggles with addiction will be touched on later.
> 
> Age gaps -- This one will come up again. It was just too tempting not to explore it a little in a time-travel fic. Mary Sue and Alex's relationship will start when he is much younger than she is, and they will slowly switch places over time. There are also numerous friendships that have large and small age gaps, and in this chapter, Gwen will discuss the age gap in her failed marriage.
> 
> Songs!  
> Hank Williams -- This one seems appropriate for a cooking scene, and it was my granddad's favorite -- [Hey Good Lookin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjCoKslQOEs)  
> Blondie -- [Heart of Glass](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGU_4-5RaxU)  
> Bette Midler -- This one's got the lyrics, so you can also sing along with it, drunkenly or not, at your discretion -- [The Rose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zxSTzSEiZ2c)  
> Brewer & Shipley -- I think the Trip Bros did a lot of songs like this one -- [One Toke Over the Line](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9HXClusp_E)


	4. Quest Con Five -- 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine gets by (and high) with a little help from her friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, heads up for toxic relationship stuff in this chapter.
> 
> I mean, it's not the only thing in this chapter. I'm angsty, but I'm not _unrelentingly_ angsty.

The second picture in my frame is of Cece and me. We’re sitting against a concrete wall, leaning into one another, our shoulders touching. She’s wearing a white, light-weight, boat neck sweater with a sort of lacy pattern knitted into it, and she’s looking at me with a wry little smile. I’m wearing one of those Victorian-inspired high neck blouses with the leg o’mutton sleeves. I think it was tan, but it’s hard to be sure from a black-and-white photo. I’m looking at something in my lap, smiling also a little wryly. The tiniest wisp of smoke is visible against my dark hair — it’s in the exact spot where the grey streak will grow in a couple of years.

Looking back on it, I’d say that Quest Con 5 was the last of the “old” cons — the ones where you mostly saw familiar faces, where everyone was just a fan of the show, no matter how they expressed that. There weren’t enough of us then to get all high and mighty about who was a “real” fan and who wasn’t. We’d needed numbers for too long to not be inclusive. It just didn’t matter whether you spent your time cataloging every alien species to have ever walked through a background shot on the show or if you spent your time writing steamy fics about Tawny and Taggart, we were all part of the same big family.

I mean, we argued, sure… But for the most part, we kept the drama to a minimum.

After all, we’d been in the trenches together.

It always surprises some people when they realize that _Galaxy Quest_ was not massively popular at first. We’d had to write a ton of letters to the studio execs to get a second season, then again to get a third season. Then we’d had to do yet another campaign to get the show into syndication. Some of us were still writing to our local TV stations, trying to get them to pick up _Galaxy Quest_.

We were basically a (mostly) polite mob threatening old guys in suits via pieces of paper.

But it worked, and syndication would bring in a whole new group of fans. And a fandom needs that. We’re like vampires — without new blood we just shrivel up. However, new people means new problems.

But that’s a story for another day.

Right now, we were riding high on our successes. The first official _GQ_ novels had come out, as well as the _NSEA_ _Technical Manual_. We were circulating the tapes. This was the biggest con yet, and there were more zines than ever before. I had a fic about Laredo in one. It was my first art exchange.

Shondra had a nephew named Stephen who had recently discovered _Galaxy Quest_ , now that it was finally on before his bedtime. He was into Laredo big time. And Shondra considered Laredo to be a great role model for little Black kids in general and her nephew in particular. So for his birthday, she asked me to write a story about Laredo. I ended up writing 2,500 words of pre-teen wish fulfillment. It was a big hit with Stephen and a lot of the youngest fans. I’m not entirely sure their parents didn’t have misgivings, considering that the message could be construed as “Don’t listen to adults because they’re kind of shitty,” but it was one of my bigger hits anyway, and Shondra drew a great illustration of Laredo meeting the president of Juven. I have it on my wall, next to my photos.

I’m pretty sure the only point of gloom in the whole con was my boyfriend at the time, Jackson.

You know that old cliché about how college is for having your disastrous romantic relationships? Let me tell you a little bit about Jackson. I met him at the beginning of my junior year, when he was a sophomore. And I was smitten from the beginning. Jackson was very good-looking and charming. My friends thought he was adorable. He wrote poetry that was actually good. He told funny stories. He always had an air of listening intently to whatever you had to say.

He was good with the romantic gestures too. He sent me handmade valentines or left flowers attached to my door for no reason.

He wore t-shirts under slightly-too-big sport coats with the sleeves rolled up. He wore pants with superfluous buckles. He looked like a member of a New Wave band despite living in the Midwest. When all the other guys had mullets, his hair was long in the front and short in the back. If we went out at night, he’d wear eyeliner.

I, on the other hand, looked like I’d hit a garage sale held by Anne Shirley. What can I say? I had a deep love of anything lacy, so I tended toward full skirts and those pseudo-Victorian blouses.

His coolness factor was way out of my league, in other words. I was in shock that he was interested in me.

In fact, I still couldn’t tell you why he was interested in me. It wasn’t my mind — which is what most of my lovers claim. The few times that he offered an opinion on my intelligence, it seemed to be slightly tinged with resentment, actually. I’m certainly not a stunning beauty by any stretch. I mean, I’ll cop to possessing quirky good looks, but that’s as far as I’m willing to flatter myself. Except for my mouth. I have a really gorgeous mouth. Yeah, I said it. I’m vain about my lips — they are plump, shapely, and perfectly rose-colored. If you had my lips, you’d be vain about them too.

Still, I don’t think my mouth is sexy enough to be the basis for an entire relationship. Maybe it was enough to have someone around who thought he was awesome (but that was everyone) and who liked his taste in music. I don’t know.

What I do know is that he really seemed to tick my boxes and it’s heady stuff having the guy that most of the guy-oriented people in your social circle wish they had. I think that’s why I didn’t notice that he exhausted me. I was nervous and tired all the time around him.

I had come out as polyamorous during my sophomore year. I’d managed to negotiate some pretty good arrangements too. At first it had seemed that Jackson was fine with that. We dated for a few months (you know, until he had me good and hooked), then he wanted to be exclusive. And I agreed to it.

Worst. Mistake. Ever.

In retrospect, he definitely used it. I wasn’t getting that kind of affection elsewhere, so I’d jump at the least inkling that he would withhold it from me. Not to mention that he had some pretty fucked up sexual neuroses, and he wanted me to have them as well. Jackson was the first guy to tell me that I’m too demanding in bed — not that he didn’t want to put a little effort into getting me off, he just wished that I didn’t want to fuck. Whoever said that guys will only want one thing from you once you give it to them, (My mom is the one who said that.) never met Jackson. As far as Jackson was concerned, I was the one who only wanted one thing. After the first few months — wherein we utilized every opportunity and semi-private flat surface available for every non-penetrative sex act we could imagine because Jackson wanted to “keep his virginity” — he up and decided that he wanted intercourse, which I was only too happy to provide. It was a couple weeks later that he started whining that our relationship would have been better if it had remained “pure and spiritual.”

So we broke up – for about a day and a half – then the roses and love poems started showing up on my door again.

After that, Jackson was much more adept at blending the shaming with just enough affection and drama to keep me around.

Anyway — I was talking about Quest Con.

Quest Con usually falls in early June, right after finals. I had gone to every single one of them so far. I had a deal with the owner of the bead shop where I worked — I worked during Christmas break, but got the first week and a half of summer off to attend con. My boss, Sherry, thought my fan shenanigans were cute. She even let me put a big poster on the bulletin board during each of the letter-writing campaigns.

As soon as Jackson found out I was going to Quest Con, he started waxing rhapsodic about how much he missed California. (His family had lived there for three months when he was fifteen.) I reminded him that the inside of one big hotel looks mostly the same as the inside of any other big hotel.

“The only difference between the L.A. Hilton and the Hilton up the road is that the L.A. Hilton has palm trees,” I said.

“You always make it sound like fun,” said Jackson. “Besides, I’d like to meet your friends.”

So of course I asked him if he wanted to go. One of the best things about having him as a boyfriend was showing him off, after all.

And he was his usual charming self with them. Cece, Margot, and Shondra were attending. (Mi-Na was super-busy in those days with college and connecting with her Korean roots. In fact, I don’t think she really got into any fandom for a long time — then, you know, Xena happened.) The first day of con was great. Fred was there, along with Tommy Weber and Gwen Demarco. I can’t remember why Alexander Dane wasn’t there. He canceled at the last minute. Jason Nesmith was filming one of the Montana Smith movies.

If you’re wondering how I never met anyone but Fred during the cons, it breaks down like this — Gwen didn’t really do any of the parties, except in the organizers’ room. Cece met her on a number of occasions since she was an organizer. I get it — Gwen got rather creepy attention from some of her male fans. She preferred to keep them (and therefore all of us) at a distance. Alexander Dane was just… well, stand-offish, I suppose. Cece had met him too. She said that he was very uncomfortable interacting with crowds of people. I believe her. Jason Nesmith still had a career in those days, but the awful movies he got cast in would soon 86 it. And Tommy Weber was just too young. He was never at any of the parties or anything late-night. His mom, Nina, was too protective for that kind of nonsense.

I never liked doing the autograph signing events. I’m almost pathologically unable to push my presence on anyone, let alone people who have to deal with that all the time. I know, a signing table is a clear invitation to do just that, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

And then I sort of gafiated. But that’s definitely a story for another day. Anyhow, that’s how I never met any of the cast.

So, like I said, we all had fun that first day, and part of the second day too. I could tell, though, that by lunchtime, Jackson was starting to get bored. There was a luncheon event planned with a cosplay contest after and entertainment by some of the big name filkers.

Jackson, it turned out, hated filk. Passionately. He’d never heard filk before, but he was done with it somewhere around the third line of the first verse. It was a parody of _Space Oddity_ called _Space Octopi_. Jackson scowled through the whole thing. He muttered “Sacrilege!” a few times for good measure.

I did a cosplay that year of a Tauren pleasure provider (If you don’t remember “The Adonis Factor,” they were sort of a cross between a matchmaker and furniture salesperson.) I got an honorable mention and went up on the stage to take my bow with the other honorables. I probably got talking to the other cosplayers for a bit too long after that. When I got back to the table, Cece told me that Jackson had left, saying something about having a headache.

So I left the luncheon early and went back to our room. Jackson was lying on the bed, watching HBO.

“How’s your head?” I asked.

“It’s fine,” he said, not even remembering what he’d told Cece.

I looked at the TV — _Tales of Ordinary Madness_. Again. Jackson was kind of obsessed with Charles Bukowski.

“You’ve seen this one,” I said.

He shrugged. “It’s gets kind of boring watching you dress up in costumes and spend all day discussing a show I don’t watch.”

Of course I’ve tried to get him to watch it with me, but he’s never wanted to because it plays on Saturday nights in our market, and he always wants us to go hang out with friends.

“It’s Quest Con, Jackson. Talking about _Galaxy Quest_ is sort of the whole point.”

“I didn’t realize you were going to spend every waking minute on it,” he said. “When you’re not talking about how Dr. Lazarus or whoever felt about something that happened in episode 78, you’re talking about how he felt about something that happened in some story one of you wrote.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. Can we just… not have it, please? It’s really distracting.” I gestured toward the TV. He picked up the remote and switched it off.

I sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry you’re not having a good time,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to go to the gaming room tonight? You don’t have to be steeped in three years of _GQ_ lore to play TwixT.”

“I have no idea what that even is,” said Jackson. “Can’t we go do something that’s just the two of us?”

“At a con?” He frowned at me, all disappointed and sad. “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“I was hoping we could skip out tomorrow and go to the beach.”

“Jackson,” I’m just — I mean I told him, for god’s sake. “I told you – this is my thing I do once a year. I told you that you’d probably be bored. Why did you even come along?”

“I wanted to spend some time with you, Mary Sue. I won’t be seeing you most of the summer.”

He wouldn’t be seeing me because he got a job working at a state park in the U.P. He was going to work at a bookstore an hour away from where I live, but he changed his mind at the last minute and decided on a gig at the park ten hours away. And yes, I was upset, particularly since my birthday is in the summer, and the job at the park actually paid less than the bookstore. So right then, even though he had a point, I wasn’t too moved by the puppy-dog eyes and the sudden realization that he’ll be sans my company for three months.

“I’ve got a writing group tomorrow,” I said. “This is the only time that I have an opportunity to talk about this stuff.”

“I invited you to join the campus writers’ group,” said Jackson.

“They made it clear that they only wanted ‘real’ writers.”

“I don’t know why you don’t write original work. You’re lucky if a hundred people read your stories.”

“You’re a poet, Jackson. I thought you’d be on board with obscurity,” I said.

Unbecoming, I know, but come on.

“Thank you for your support, Mary Sue,” he said, sour and cranky.

“How about we do something tonight,” I said. “All I have planned is pizza with the girls.” I know this is a weird way to describe people who have a decade or three on me, but I seem to channel my great-grandma on these occasions.

“We could go to the Hard Rock Cafe,” he said, finally looking excited.

“Babe, I can’t afford that,” I said. “We’d have to get a cab and I haven’t got much food money left.”

“You bought, like a dozen zines today.”

“Which is why I’m so broke now.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll pay for it. Anything to get out of here for a little while.”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I’ve got a panel in a few minutes. Do you want to come along or stay and watch the free HBO?”

“I’ll stay,” he said.

So I changed out of my costume, (Tauren pleasure providers have a decidedly minimalist fashion sense.) and went to the panel. I managed to catch up with Margot in the hallway outside the meeting room. I explained that Jackson really wanted to get out of the hotel for dinner, so I wouldn’t be coming to her room for pizza with her and Shondra and whoever else was going to be there tonight. (Cece had some organizers’ event to attend.)

“Well, I can’t blame you for getting a better offer,” she said, laughing. “We’ll probably be there late, so if you come by and see the ‘do not disturb’ sign, by all means, disturb us.”

“Will do,” I said. “Thanks for understanding.”

“I get it, he’s cute.” She waved me off.

Dinner was awful. It hadn’t occurred to me that it would take approximately eight years to get seated at a restaurant that was as popular as the Hard Rock was in those days, especially on a Saturday night. And of course it was loud — like club loud — there was no hope of conversation. The food was good enough but not special. Jackson drank so much that he ended up just sloshing his carcass into the bed the minute we got back.

I looked at the clock — midnight. Margot and Shondra had probably gone to bed already. Shondra’s an early riser and Margot’s 60. By Saturday night, she’s usually even more ready to pass out than Jackson was.

But I decided to give it a try anyway.

So I went up to the top floor where Margot’s room was, but the “do not disturb” sign had been removed. I was headed back to the elevators when I saw the nondescript door at the end of the hall.

I tried the door. It opened and a playing card fell out. I entered the stairwell and closed the door behind me, carefully replacing the card. Unlike the other stairs in the hotel which were broad and carpeted, these were narrow and bare except for a coat of grey paint and those stripes of gritty stuff. I followed them up. They ended at a large room containing mysterious machines — elevator… engines? Not my area of expertise. I looked around for a second stairwell. It wasn’t hard to spot, being more brightly lit than the surrounding room. At the top was another door and another playing card.

I stepped out onto the roof, swallowing down the panic as I got my first look at how high up I was.

“Hello?” I called. “Anybody here? It’s me — Mary Sue.”

“Mary Sue!” Cece’s head appeared at the top of the ladder leading to the raised helipad.

“Hey, Cece,” I said, putting my hand on the wall to steady myself. “I’m pretty sure I can’t do the ladder.”

“I can’t believe you made it this far!” she said. “Hold on, we’ll come to you.”

I held on. She came down the ladder. Fred appeared at the top and tossed a blanket to her.

“Hey, Mary Sue,” he said.

“Hey, Fred,” I replied, looking back at the wall and taking a deep breath.

I heard him come down the ladder.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said.

“Nonsense,” said Fred, next to me now. “I’m glad you’re here. I got all the shots I wanted from the top anyway.” He took my hand, which went miles toward making me feel safer, honestly. That’s irrational, I know, but so is being afraid of a ledge that’s eight feet away. “Come on, there’s a nice place to sit right around the corner.”

He led me around the raised bit to a place where the deck of the main roof broadened out considerably. From here, without the panic, it was possible for me to appreciate the view of the city lights.

“Wow.”

Fred grinned and squeezed my hand.

“Where’s the Coliseum?” I asked.

Fred pointed. “It’s thataway, but you can’t really see it from here.”

Cece came up behind me with the blanket. She spread it out next to the wall and we all sat down on it.

“How was dinner?” asked Cece.

“Lousy. How was yours?”

“A monumental feat of the culinary art,” said Cece.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m still trying to figure out how one goes about making dry Chicken Kiev.”

“I’m sure there’s a secret to it,” said Fred.

“Well, they should’ve kept that secret in the vault,” said Cece. She reached into the pocket of her jacket and brought out a quarter-smoked joint. She lit it and passed it to me.

We’d been doing this since Quest Con 2 — Cece, Fred, and me, and sometimes Shondra. Margot didn’t approve of “reefers,” so we tended to do this late on Saturday night after the constant activity had finally worn her out. Quite often, it had worn Shondra out too. I could usually make it until Sunday afternoon before I crashed. Fred and Cece ran on Energizer batteries.

Anyway, Quest Con 2 — Cece, Shondra, and I had met Fred in the elevator. He had his camera with him and Cece asked him what he was taking pictures of tonight.

“The city,” he said. “Wanna coma along?”

Hell yes, we wanted to come along. So we followed Fred to the top floor, figuring he was going to the restaurant there to take pictures through the huge windows.

Nope. He casually walked right through a door near the main stairwell that said, “Custodial Staff Only.” We followed him up a narrow staircase and out onto the roof of the building. Fred placed a playing card between the male and female parts of the latch to keep it from locking.

We were outside the city that time, but we could see the lights of the buildings rising in the distance and the lights of the cars as they flowed along the freeways, making them look like rivers of light.

I smoked my first joint ever on that rooftop watching L.A. sparkle on the horizon with Fred, Cece, and Shondra.

Since then, it’s been sort of a given that we’ll do this sooner or later at every con. I was glad I didn’t miss it this year. That was the first year that the con had been held downtown and the view from up there was spectacular. The hotel was certainly not the tallest building, and we could see into the lit windows all around us. Mostly, they were offices. I imagined the service staff moving through them, emptying trash, vacuuming the carpets. No doubt there was the occasional late-night office worker, preparing a big presentation or a spreadsheet or whatever people who wear ties do in big office buildings.

And behind some of those windows, people were fucking. I was sure of it. Some of them had to have been apartments, after all. Couples were going to bed early to make love, or doing it right at the dining table or on the couch. Some of those office workers burning the midnight oil, suddenly noticing how hot Bob from accounting is when he loosens his tie, taking him bent over the boss’s big desk. One of the maids seeing the light coming from the crack where, in their haste, they didn’t shut the door entirely. She’s peeking in and watching, one hand under her skirt, the other in her mouth as she’s biting down on her moan when she comes.

“Hey, Earth to Mary Sue.”

It was Cece. I’d zoned out. I do that. A lot.

“Oh, you’re back!” said Cece. “What were you thinking so hard about?”

I blushed.

Fred giggled, the smoke he’d just inhaled escaping.

“Out with it,” said Cece.

“Just… you know… spinning a little story in my head.”

I blushed again

And then I went into confession mode.

“I have ADD,” I said. “Attention Deficit Disorder.” I didn’t let them say anything, just plowed right on. In 1999 people may have a lot of preconceived notions about my disorder, but in 1984, no one outside of a psychiatric conference had even heard of it. (I’m exaggerating, but not by much.) “You’ve seen little kids who can’t hold still? They have to look behind every tree, play with every object, that sort of thing?”

“Yeah,” said Cece. Fred nodded.

“I’m like that, only I don’t move around much. I make up a story about the door to Oz on the other side of the tree, or I wonder if the tempting object will grant me magical powers if I touch it.”

“So you have a good imagination,” said Fred.

“Yeah, except I can’t really control it. Maybe I have something more important to do, or something I’d rather do, but no. My brain wants to focus on this now and I’ve got no choice but to either let it or trick it into wanting to focus on something else. I was supposed to grow out of it, but I haven’t entirely. It’s embarrassing when I get caught like that.”

There are worse aspects to it, but have I mentioned being raised to not burden others?

“Don’t be embarrassed,” said Cece. “You’re fine.”

Fred elbowed me gently and handed me the joint. I took a little toke and passed it to Cece. She smiled at me and I felt good about my decision to tell them.

“You ever been to the beach?” I asked Fred.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s nicer at night. It’s cool and there’s fewer people.”

“You think everything’s nicer at night,” said Cece.

“Because everything is nicer at night,” said Fred. “It’s quieter, slower… softer, fewer hard edges.” I’d passed the joint back to him without taking any myself this time, and the end glowed as he waved his hand in the air toward the beautiful night around us.

I was ready to fall into that place of contentment with just listening to them talk, just sitting in between them as their words and ideas and affection and camaraderie flowed and swirled around me.

But Fred wanted to know why I asked about the beach.

“Mmm, Jackson wants to go tomorrow,” I said.

“Writers’ group is tomorrow,” Cece reminded me.

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I told him I’d go to dinner with him tonight. He’s going to try to talk me into it again tomorrow, though. I know he will.”

“You gonna let him?” asked Fred.

“Nope,” I said, and I giggled.

The conversation drifted along to the night and space. Both Fred and Cece had been out to the desert, where there’s no light pollution and the sky seems huge and bright with stars.

“Do you ever look at the stars and think about the fact that you got to play someone who traveled among them?” Cece asked Fred.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “It hasn’t done much for my career, sadly, but I love that I was part of something that’s touched so many people.”

“How’d you get the part?” I asked. This is the sort of nosy question I normally wouldn’t ask, so I’m pretty sure it’s the pot talking.

“Oh god,” Fred smiled and shook his head. “My agent called me up and told me that some show had put out a call for someone ‘ethnic.’”

“Ethnic.”

“Yeah. Anyway it’s not like Lebanese-American actors are swimming in opportunities, you know? Hell, most of the roles I’d gotten up to that point were Italian guys. I’m not good-looking enough to be a lead or tough-looking enough to be a mook, so… yeah. When I found out the role was for Tech Sgt. _Chen_ , I figured I didn’t stand a chance, but Frank loved my audition. And I really needed the money. My dad and step-mom were trying to put my sisters through college and not lose their business. So, I took the stage name, Kwan, and here I am.”

“I think you’re very handsome,” I said. “Definitely leading man material.”

“Me too,” said Cece.

Fred rolled his eyes, but he looked a little flustered too.

“Guys…” he said.

Cece and I cracked up.

We sat there for a few minutes, just passing the joint back and forth, thinking our own thoughts.

Suddenly, Cece said, “You really were part of something special, Fred. You did touch lives, still do. You’re a great artist.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said.

“You are,” Cece insisted. “The highest accomplishment is making your audience think and feel something.”

“You sound like Alex.”

Cece laughed. “Well, we’re pen-pals. Maybe he’s rubbed off on me.”

“Not the mopey parts, I hope,” said Fred.

“Fred Kwan! You be nice!” said Cece.

“I can’t help it if he tends to be a little morose,” said Fred. “But if it helps, I will say that he’s not only a great actor, he has a gift for inspiring great performances. I learned a lot working with him.”

“I loved the two of you together — you and Alex,” I clarified. “There always seems to be so much going on between Lazarus and Chen that they don’t even need to talk about — they’re just quietly on the same wavelength. My favorite episodes were the ones where they had to work together.”

Fred looked at me. “You saw that?”

“Mm-hmm. I loved that.” I stopped myself before I admitted that Chen/Lazarus are my favorite pairing. That would’ve just felt weird.

After that, Fred and Cece talked about art some more, and I started to fall asleep. I snapped to attention, though, when Cece nudged me and said, “Someone’s got the right idea. I need to get to bed too.”

She and Fred had lit another joint while I was busy noodling and nodding off. Cece handed it to me. “Hold this,” she said. She started to dig for something in her pockets.

In the meantime, Fred had stood up and was taking some more pictures from the edge of the roof. He stood right up on the ledge. I looked away.

Cece finally came up with a pack of gum — the tiny cinnamon kind. “Want one?” she asked.

“Sure, thanks,” I said.

“Are you going to dump him?”

It took me a second to figure out that she meant Jackson. I’d kind of forgotten about his existence, to be truthful. I put the joint to my lips and took just a tiny breath of smoke to buy myself a second.

“Do you think I should?”

Cece was not the first person I’d asked this question, but it hadn’t registered to me what that meant. “He’s really not a bad person.” _There’s_ a ringing endorsement.

“He doesn’t have to be a bad person to be the wrong person,” said Cece. I looked at my hands in my lap and I was aware of the sound of Fred’s shutter snapping from much closer now. “Your light gets dim when he’s around.”

“He makes me tired,” I admitted.

Fred held out his hand. I took it, and he hauled me up to standing. “Don’t be with someone who drains you and makes you tired, Mary Sue,” he said. “There’s somebody or something out there that will inspire you and fill you up. Wait for that.”

He hauled Cece up too. “Yeah,” she said. “What Fred said.”

I’m lucky to have friends like these, but I didn’t even know how lucky yet.

 

I woke up the next morning to Jackson cuddled up behind me and asking me to go to the beach.

“I really can’t skip the writers’ panel,” I told him. “Margot’s counting on me.”

“So? She’ll find someone else to sit with,” he said

“She’s my friend. I can’t leave her in the lurch like that. Besides, this was one of my main reasons for coming to con this year.”

“A writing group?” he asked, as if that was the hardest thing I’d ever asked him to believe.

“I know you don’t take my writing seriously,” I said, “but I do.”

“I take it seriously. I think you could write something really spectacular someday… when you’re ready to give up writing about other people’s characters and other people’s worlds.”

Ugh.

“Look, you should go to the beach,” I said. “You’ll have more fun there without me anyway. I’m a lousy swimmer and I’ll have a sunburn within 20 minutes. I’d just be a drag. The beach is really not my thing.”

“Neither is smoking weed, but you’ll do that with your friends.”

I rolled over enough to look at him. I was torn between asking how he knew and pointing out that he smokes nearly every weekend.

“I can smell it in your hair,” he said, answering the first question without needing me to ask it. “It’s funny how you don’t want to when it’s _my_ friends.”

“I’m on vacation, Jackson. I don’t have a paper due or a test tomorrow.” I could’ve pointed out that his friends were my friends too. In fact, quite a few of them were my friends first, but I’d learned not to let him get me off on tangents. Sort of. Let’s just say I knew better even though it still happened on a regular basis.

“You didn’t ask if I wanted to come along,” he said.

The very idea of Jackson coming coming to the roof with us was dreadful. The whole soft, quiet feeling of those rooftop sessions would have evaporated like mist in bright sunlight.

He just… he was too much. I had no room for myself in this relationship.

This really wasn’t working for either of us. I needed to dump him.

But the timing really sucked and I didn’t need this particular drama this particular second. I needed to manage him.

“It wasn’t my party to invite people to,” I said gently. “There was no point in waking you up to tell you that I wanted to go do something without you, so I just let you sleep. I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings.” Well, it was the truth.

“It’s just that I came here to spend time with you,” he said, cupping my breast, bringing out the big guns. Jackson didn’t offer me sex very often (and god knows I’d learned better than to ask for it). But I wasn’t getting distracted.

“I know you did, and somehow I didn’t make it clear that con would take up almost every waking minute of this weekend.” By “somehow” I meant Jackson’s piss-poor listening skills when it came to hearing what he didn’t want to hear. Okay. To be fair, I might have sounded more equivocal than I’d meant to because where I grew up, hard noes are frowned upon. Still, I’m pretty sure “you really won’t enjoy it” passed my lips more than once.

“Go to the beach,” I said. “Have fun. Enjoy yourself. I’m sorry this weekend was a disaster for you. You should try to salvage what you can, but I’ve got obligations here and I can’t go with you.”

He stroked my nipple, which normally I love, but when I’m not in the mood for it? It’s just irritating as hell.

“I need a shower,” I said.

“I don’t mind.”

Since when?!

“Yeah well, the panel starts in 40 minutes, and apparently I smell like the devil’s cigarettes. Also I need to grab something to eat or I’ll get a headache. I’m sorry.”

Anybody keeping track of how many apologies I was issuing here?

I got out of bed. He sulked at me. I shook my head and grabbed my shower kit and a change of clothes from my bag. When I came back out of the bathroom, he was still pouting.

I checked my make-up in the mirror over the dresser.

“Are you going?” I asked.

“Yeah, I guess so. Since you’re too busy.”

I didn’t rise to it. I just smiled sweetly. “Have a good time, Jackson,” I said, really and honestly meaning it.

I stopped by the room where they served the complimentary continental breakfast. They were clearing it away, but I managed to snag a banana.

When I got to the meeting room, Margot was already there, saving me a seat.

“Hey,” I said as I slipped into the chair.

“There you are.” Margot moved her stuff over so that I’d have more room. “Where’s the cutie-patootie?” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Jackson decided to go to the beach,” I said, laughing a little. She had amazingly mobile eyebrows.

“Probably just as well. Don’t want to shock the poor kid at his first con,” she said. I knew what she was referring to. While this wasn’t specifically for slash writers, it wasn’t NOT for slash writers either.

“I think it’s his last con too,” I said. “It isn’t really his thing, which I told him, but I guess he had to bleed to know. On the other hand, he’s seen what I write, even the stuff I don’t publish. It doesn’t bother him.”

I mean, Jackson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a homophobe.

Someone at the front of the room started making hey-we’re-getting-started noises about then, so what Margot thought about me sharing my smut with my boyfriend would have to wait.

What followed was some pretty good stuff about characterization and how to keep a character in character while still allowing the character to experience some character growth.

Afterwards, we all sort of milled about talking about fic writing and trying to act cool when we met someone who wrote the story everyone was gushing about that year (and failing). Margot, as usual, was right at the center of a group talking about Taggart/Lazarus fiction. The Tawny/Taggart group had set up camp in another corner, and I was hanging out with the genfic tribe.

I wrote romance sometimes, but I’m not into either of the Big Two pairings, and I’d never submitted any of it to the zines yet, so most people there who knew me knew me for mildly humorous adventure stories — mostly starring Tawny Madison. That year, however, I had the one about Laredo in _Story Quest_ — one of the bigger all-ages zines.

I was sort of half-listening to the conversation and idly wondering if knowing Fred colors my characterization of Chen when one of the other writers asked me about how I titled my fics.

“Song lyrics,” I confessed.

“Just a song that reminds you of the story?” she asked. I think her name was Lori. Her pseudonym was Serena P. She was about my age or a little older.

“Or one that I’ve been listening to lately.” Lori nodded silently. Now what? I thought. Ask a question, stupid. “How do you come up with your titles?” I asked. I was socializing, which is still not my strong suit when I’m in a situation where Earnest Discussions or dirty jokes may not be appreciated.

“Sometimes a phrase or word that I find myself using a lot in the story works for the title,” she said. “Other times I just sort of try to say what the story’s about, you know?”

I didn’t know, but I nodded solemnly anyway. I tried a compliment.

“I liked your story about Tawny and the computer.” Success! She dimpled up and launched into an excited monologue about how she thought it would be cool if Tawny and the computer solved a mystery together, as if the computer were a detective and Tawny was the assistant, except Tawny would really be the one coming up with most of the solutions although the computer would think it was doing all the work, and I’m pretty sure I came away with a reasonably accurate idea of the office dynamics where Lori worked.

Margot came over at that point to ask if I was ready for lunch. I said my goodbyes and we skedaddled.

“Ears still on?” she asked me as we headed to the hotel’s cheapest eatery.

“She’s okay. We all like to talk about our work,” I said.

“Too bad Merv Griffin doesn’t have time to interview all of us.”

“I really liked the scene where their dicks were touching and they were French kissing. How did you come up with that, Ms. Kellerman?”

“Well, you see, Merv, it’s like this. The kissing was a metaphor for the depth of their friendship, like the depth of their tongues, licking each others’ tonsils,” said Margot.

“And the dicks?”

“That was a metaphor for how much they wanted to put their penises in each other.”

By that point we were being asked if we needed a table for two and trying not to giggle at the hostess. We managed to behave ourselves while we got shown to our seats and handed menus.

I decided to just have a cheeseburger and fries. Margot ordered a tuna melt.

“And extra pickles for both of us, please,” she said. “We both like plenty of pickles.”

“You’re a bad influence. You know that, right?”

She tried to look angelic. “It’s not like I’m encouraging you to drink while underage or anything truly nefarious like that.”

I flagged down the waitress as she went by and ordered a white wine spritzer for old time’s sake. She headed over to the bar to deliver my order.

From where we were sitting, we could see into the bar area. I watched as the bartender turned on the TV, probably for the trio of men in suits sitting at the end of the bar. He switched it to CNN. For a second, it blared, until he turned it down to nearly silent. I guess the suits only wanted to check the stock market.

The report was about HIV. It had only been identified the month before. Scientists were looking for a way to test the blood supply for it.

Margot looked at me. “You and cutie-patootie are careful, I hope.”

I nodded. “We always use condoms.”

Even though I was also on the pill. It’s another mark in his favor, I guess, that I didn’t have to argue about it.

“I mean you’re not… doing anything risky?”

“Like? Sharing needles? We don’t shoot up drugs,” I said, wondering if she thought that we were part of some kind of particularly dangerous counter-culture movement.

“I mean you aren’t doing anal,” she clarified.

“No,” I said. “Not that it would make a difference. We’d use condoms for that too.”

“It’s still more dangerous.”

The science was still plenty muddy back then and there were as many rumors as facts about the disease. I didn’t really think that there was any appreciably greater risk in doing anal with a condom as compared to vaginal with a condom, but there wasn’t any reason to argue the point. I assured Margot again that Jackson and I were both being careful.

The waitress came back with our food. Margot pulled the frilly toothpick out of her tuna melt.

I’d just taken a big bite of my cheeseburger, so of course Margot took advantage of my full mouth to change the subject.

“I read the story you sent me,” she said.

“Mmf!” I said, swallowing as much as I could and washing it down with a gulp of my spritzer. Talking about my writing would probably distract me from a broken leg. “What did you think?”

“I liked it,” she said. “I was surprised. I didn’t think I’d like Lazarus and Chen together.”

“I’ve always wanted to see them together,” I said. “I love the way they work hand-in-hand so easily. And Chen’s so calm. He seems like the sort of person Lazarus would turn to when his life got chaotic.”

“I liked how you show Chen having a few cracks in that tranquil façade,” said Margot.

“I wanted them to see each other more deeply. I suppose their relationship was never really explored much in the show, but I kind of felt like, if they got to know each other, see the cracks, they’d maybe fall in love a little.”

“I think it might be a bit out-of-character for Lazarus to be gay though.”

“Um, Margot. You write him gay all the time,” I said.

“No, I always write him as straight,” she said. “Taggart too. They aren’t gay in my mind. They just care so much for each other that it doesn’t matter.”

“There’s nothing in canon to say Lazarus is one way or the other,” I pointed out. “All of his romantic plots are about women who fall in love with him, but he’s not into them.”

“None of them can compare to what he feels for Taggart,” said Margot, knowingly.

“Or he’s not into banging women,” I said.

“It’s hotter if he is.”

“If you say so. Personally, I’ve always seen Lazarus as gay.”

“What about Taggart?” asked Margot.

“Straight,” I said. “Very straight. I mean, he clearly likes women, right?”

“Yeah, but by your logic he could like men too.”

“When would he have the time?” I asked.

“You’ve got a point,” said Margot. “If he bedded half as many men as he does women his pecker’d fall off from over-use.”

I nearly snorted spritzer out of my nose.

“What about Chen?” I asked, once I could breathe.

“I’ve never considered it. I’ll accept your headcanon on that one.”

“I have a sequel planned.”

“Send it to me when you write it,” she said.

 

Which reminds me — wanna see the Laredo story?

Too bad. I’m including it anyway.

 

 

***

 

 

You Wouldn’t Kid About It

By Thalia Z.

 

This mission was the scariest thing that Lt. Laredo had ever done. And he’d done some pretty scary things since he’d joined the crew of the _Protector_.

He’d piloted the ship through the aurora of a star in the Abraxas Quadrant.

He’d made an emergency landing on Stasis after piloting the _Protector_ though a meteor shower in the Ugonian Asteroid Belt.

He’d even flown the ship during the the terrifying battle with the Kronthaxxian Asteroid Squid.

He was the best and youngest pilot in the NSEA, but negotiating a treaty with the Juven government scared the pants off Laredo. He really sucked at this kind of thing.

One time, he’d shaken the hand of the ambassador from KQU-flux and it turned out that the KQU-fluxians are offended by handshakes. Very, very offended. The ambassador had wanted Laredo to fight the ambassador’s champion to the death for offending him so much. Then the ambassador said that Tawny Madison would be his champion. Dr. Lazarus had to do a lot of talking to calm the ambassador down.

Dr. Lazarus had to do a lot of talking to Princess T’Prang of the moon-planet Hephaestus, as well. She hadn’t liked it when Laredo said that she was all right for a girl.

Laredo was sure that he was going to mess this up too.

“I’m going to mess this up too,” he said to Dr. Lazarus as they boarded the surface pod that would take them to Juven.

“Nonsense, Lieutenant,” said Dr. Lazarus. “You’ll do fine. I’ll be with you for the entire negotiation.”

That did make him feel a little better. But only a little. Laredo wished that Cmdr. Taggart were coming along on this mission. Dr. Lazarus may have been the smartest person on the _Protector_ , but Cmdr. Taggart was the bravest.

All that Laredo was best at was piloting the ship and making important aliens angry.

Laredo took a deep breath and powered up the surface pod.

It didn’t matter that Dr. Lazarus was smarter or that Cmdr. Taggart was braver.

The thing was — the entire planet of Juven was run by kids.

Dr. Lazarus had told them all about it during the briefing this morning. About 100 years ago, there was an uprising. The children of Juven decided they were tired of their parents sending them to school for longer and longer hours. They were upset that their parents were polluting the planet. They were upset that their parents kept starting wars with each other.

So one day, instead of going to school, they all marched to the capitols of the various countries on Juven… and took them over.

The grown-ups thought they were being silly, so they said, “Fine. You think you can run everything? Let’s see you do it, smartypantses.”

And the kids did just that. They abolished all the countries and started a global government. They made it so that only kids under 16 could be citizens. They told all the companies that they couldn’t pollute anymore and the companies had to stop polluting because they couldn’t just move to another country that would let them pollute because there weren’t any other countries anymore. They made the school day three hours long, and you only had to go for three years — then you could decide if you wanted to do some more school when you retired from being a citizen — in case you wanted to spend the rest of your life being a doctor or a physicist or something. And of course, with no countries, there were no wars either.

The grown-ups decided that they were all better off this way. Everything was clean and peaceful, and the grown-ups didn’t have to yell at kids to go to school all the time. So 100 years later, the kids were still in charge.

And they didn’t negotiate with adults, so if the NSEA wanted a treaty that allowed their vessels to travel safely through Juven space, they were going to have to send a kid there to get it.

Laredo just wished that he wasn’t the only kid available.

There was no time left for wishing now, though. They had just landed at the Juven spaceport.

Laredo powered down the surface pod and looked at Dr. Lazarus.

Lazarus didn’t usually do friendly smiles, but he gave a little one to Laredo anyway. “Remember, Lieutenant,” said the doctor, “I am your ‘sitter.’ You can’t ask me for advice in front of the others. If you need something, you will have to request a recess and speak to me then.”

“Okay,” said Laredo. “Got it.”

“We don’t need anything complicated from them, just the right to fly through their space without being confronted by one of their fighters.”

“Right,” said Laredo. He opened the surface pod door.

The sun outside was very bright as it bounced off the white buildings of the spaceport. A small group of people were coming toward the surface pod — two grown-ups and three kids.

The kid in front appeared to be about Laredo’s age. She had long, straight, blue hair and her skin was a lighter shade of blue. Other than that, she looked very much like a human. She held out her hand.

Laredo swallowed and shook it. Thankfully, that seemed to be the right thing to do.

“I’m Mikara Tengu,” she said, “President Supreme of Juven Prime and Governor of the Nine Colonies.”

That sounded important. Laredo wondered what the Nine Colonies were.

“I’m Lt. Laredo, pilot of the NSEA _Protector_ and representative of the Alliance of Planets. It’s… uhm… nice to meet you.”

She grinned and introduced him to the others.

“This is Gen. Caro Wendolo, leader of the Juven Armada; and Sen. Fayna Sirks of Vordoro Province.”

Laredo shook their hands.

Pres. Tengu pointed her thumb at the grown-ups standing behind her. “This is my mom, and that’s Caro’s mom.”

Laredo nodded toward Dr. Lazarus. “This is uhm… my sitter.”

Gen. Wendolo waved at Dr. Lazarus. “Hi, Laredo’s sitter. What species are you?”

“I am Mak’Tar, General.”

“Cool,” said Gen. Wendolo. “I’ve never seen a Mak’Tar.”

“Well, now you have,” said Sen. Sirks, elbowing the general in his ribs. “Quit staring. It’s rude!”

“Why are you even here, Fayna?” asked Gen. Wendolo.

Sen. Sirks shrugged. “I was bored.”

“Yeah,” said Gen. Wendolo, “and you wanted to see a Mak’Tar too.”

“Alright, you guys,” said Pres. Tengu. “Chill out a little.” She turned to Dr. Lazarus. “Sorry about that, Laredo’s sitter.”

“It’s quite alright, Madam President,” said Dr. Lazarus. “I am accustomed to the attention. Most people have never met a Mak’Tar.”

“No, I bet not,” said Pres. Tengu. “Do you have any kids?”

Laredo fidgeted a bit. He knew that babies were a sensitive subject for the doctor, but Lazarus seemed unfazed.

“Not at present,” said Dr. Lazarus.

“Oh,” said Pres. Tengu. “Too bad.” She turned and started walking away from the surface pod. “Come on! There’s snacks back at the palace.”

There was a ground car waiting a few meters away. It was huge — plenty of room for everyone. Another grown-up was behind the wheel. He wore a uniform.

“This is Qelo. He’s the driver,” said Pres. Tengu.

“I didn’t know that grown-ups had jobs here,” said Laredo.

“Oh! Yeah they do. Everyone needs to do something useful. That’s one of the Basic Needs. They don’t teach that in your schools?” asked Pres. Tengu.

“N-no,” said Laredo.

The Juvens looked shocked.

“If I may interrupt, Madam,” said Dr. Lazarus.

“Go ahead,” said Pres. Tengu.

“It is taught among Humans and Mak’Tar — but it is part of the curriculum of higher education.”

Pres. Tengu said, “They should teach it earlier.” She pressed her lips together and looked very disapproving.

“Now that I consider it, I believe you are correct,” said Dr. Lazarus.

“Of course I am,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“Oh don’t get all prissy about it,” said Gen. Wendolo. “Aliens are different. The Alliance of Planets are good guys. Who cares when they teach the Basic Needs?”

Pres. Tengu just sulked for another moment or two, then said, “Anyway, grown-ups have lots of jobs. They’re just not allowed to be in the government. My mom’s a biologist.”

Pres. Tengu’s mom smiled.

Laredo smiled. “Hey! So’s Dr… I mean… my sitter.”

“Cool,” said Sen. Sirks.

When they got to the palace, Dr. Lazarus was sent away with the other grown-ups, and Laredo followed the other kids to a big meeting room. There was a large conference table in the middle of the room, but Laredo noticed that it was shorter than normal and the chairs were smaller too. Sen. Sirks went over to a sideboard where a couple of pitchers sat next to some glasses.

“The others will be here soon,” she said. “Would you like some juice?”

“Yeah, thanks,” said Laredo. “Juice sounds great.” He was really thirsty, now that he thought about it.

“What kind?” asked Sen. Sirks.

“Red?” he said.

She nodded and poured something red into a glass.

Laredo had been to hundreds of planets. They all had some kind of red juice, and they all tasted the same. Red was a safe, solid choice when it came to juice. Orange was always either completely vile or incredibly delicious. Pink was never sweet enough.

A bunch of other kids began coming into the the room and finding their seats. Pres. Tengu introduced them, but Laredo was sure he’d never get all of the names right. Some were military personnel. Some were elected officials. Some were Pres. Tengu’s advisors.

Once they had all gotten some juice, Pres. Tengu stood up. “Okay, guys. Quiet down.” She gestured toward Laredo. “This is Lt. Laredo of the NSEA _Protector_. He’s here with a message from the Alliance of Planets. Lieutenant?”

Laredo stood up. “Basically, we want to be able to fly our ships through your space. We almost lost a research vessel with 120 people aboard last week because they decided to avoid your fighters and go around it. They’d been attacked by Mank’Nar warriors and they were badly damaged, but they were afraid that if they had a run-in with your fighters, they’d be destroyed. They barely made it to our nearest station before their beryllium sphere began to break down.”

“We wouldn’t fire on a vessel that wasn’t trying something,” said one of the senators. “Why would the commander think that?”

“Weeellll,” said Gen. Wendolo, “sometimes the younger ones can be a little trigger-happy. They want to shoot things. That’s why they joined the service. Lots of them are barely older than babies.”

Babies on Juven were anyone younger than five.

“That’s the other thing,” said Laredo. “When we hear them on our communicators, and realize how young they are — lots of our commanders don’t want to have a fire-fight with a little kid, you know?”

“Afraid they’ll lose?” asked a captain. He looked about six.

“They want to protect kids,” said Laredo. “They don’t put kids in danger like that.”

“You’re a kid, and they let you fly one of their biggest ships,” said Pres. Tengu. “Aren’t you in danger?”

“Well, yeah —”

“So they’re okay with it,” said the young captain. “They just don’t want to lose.”

“The Alliance and the NSEA are peaceful,” said Laredo. “We don’t want to fight anyone. We only fight when we have to. That’s why we’ve been going around the borders of your space, but it takes our ships way out of their way, and last week people almost died because of it.”

“What does the Statecraft panel think, Kana?” asked Pres. Tengu.

An older girl, obviously a teen-ager spoke, “They say, allow it but charge a fee.”

“They would say that,” said Sen. Sirks, rolling her eyes.

“They’ve got a point,” said Kana. “If damaged ships show up here needing repairs, that could put a strain on our resources. The fee would supposedly be just enough to cover that sort of thing.”

“Supposedly,” said another senator farther down the table.

“How about, they have to pay for any repairs as they need them?” asked Pres. Tengu. “And the treaty is open to renegotiation if they pull that sort of business too often.”

“That sounds good,” said Sen. Sirks. “I propose we vote.”

“I second,” said the other senator.

The votes were overwhelmingly for. It made Laredo happy that the Juvens were so open to helping the NSEA, but this changed the proposed treaty and he thought he should run it by Dr. Lazarus first.

“I… um. I should think over the proposed changes first,” said Laredo. “Can we have a recess?”

“Great idea!” said Pres. Tengu. “Recess, everyone!”

In hindsight, that may not have been the best choice of words, thought Laredo, as he and Sen. Sirks took a turn spinning Pres. Tengu, Gen. Wendolo, and the young captain on the merry-go-round.

Still, it felt good to run and play. Laredo realized it had been a very long time since he’d had the chance.

After the merry-go-round, they joined a sort of perpetual game of tag that anyone on the playground was allowed to join. Laredo was “it” twice owing to the fact that his legs were shorter than the average Juven’s.

Finally, he bowed out and flopped down, hot and sweaty under a fuschia tree. Advisor Kana was sitting there, watching the others play.

“Not into tag?” he asked.

“Not so much,” she said, grinning. “I used to be a master at it, though. I’m retired now, so I wouldn’t be allowed, even if I wanted to.”

“What are you doing here, if you’re retired?” he asked.

“I’m the liaison to the Adult Advisory Panel on Statecraft.” she said.

“Okay, what’s that?” he asked.

“Kids don’t have time to become experts on stuff like science or medicine or business, so there are panels made up of adult experts. They used to consult with the President and the Senate directly, but they were pressuring the kids too much, so now they all have liaisons — teenagers like me who are retired but still younger than twenty.”

“Why do the grown-ups let the kids run the planet?”

“Grown-ups think differently from kids. Their way of thinking is great for things that take a lot of time to learn, but kids are better at government. We don’t get tempted by money as much, for one thing. Kids have really long lives ahead of them, so they tend to take better care of the planet. And the biggest thing is that kids still believe passionately in being fair. They don’t make a bunch of complicated laws to make things look fair, but which unfair people know how to get around. Everybody has just been happier since the kids took over.”

Laredo nodded. It made perfect sense when she put it that way.

“Have you made your decision?” asked Kana.

“I was supposed to check with Dr. Lazarus,” Laredo confessed, “but I think he’ll be cool with it. It’s fair, and he believes in fairness, even if he is a grown-up.”

“And if you’re wrong, at least they won’t make you do another diplomatic mission, right?”

“Right,” said Laredo, grinning.

 

When they were docked once again in the pod bay of the _Protector_ , Dr. Lazarus stopped Laredo before he could open the hatch of the surface pod.

“First of all, Lieutenant,” he said, “you did excellent work today. I am impressed with the grace you’ve shown in what I know to be a stressful situation for you.”

Laredo looked at his boots, a little embarrassed at what was pretty high praise coming from Lazarus.

“And second of all, you have what can only be described as a juice mustache.”

 

***

 

 

So did I dump Jackson?

Yeah, I did.

We caught the red-eye back to Michigan that night. We were both too exhausted to stay awake for the whole flight. His dad was kind enough meet us at the airport at the ungodly hour of six a.m. Jackson and I had planned to spend the day together before I drove the hour and a half to my parents’. (I’d left my please-pull-me-over-officer yellow ‘76 Sunbird at his place for the weekend.)

Instead I calmly explained to him that I didn’t feel that we were right for each other and that we would both be happier in the long run if our relationship was no longer a romantic one.

Just kidding.

I broke up with him over the course of nearly three hours, during which there was a veritable flood of tears (and snot, if I’m going to be accurate here), arguments, apologies, recriminations, the usual stuff that occurs when two people end something that they’ve invested over a year of time and large amounts of energy in. I’m just glad we didn’t live together or have to see each other for the next three months. Once the storm was over, it was a good, clean break.

Just kidding.

He moped around campus for my entire senior year, sometimes dating other girls, then showing up drunk at my room to tell me he still loved me or ask what was so wrong with him that both I and the girlfriend of the week found him completely unlovable. Stupid me — I’d comfort him. Hell, a few times I even slept with him.

My friends — the ones that had sided with me after the break-up — kept telling me to avoid him. The friends that had taken custody of Jackson also felt I should avoid him because it was obvious that I was a bitch who wouldn’t allow him to heal from the terrible heartbreak that I had visited upon him by “stealing” his virginity and then dumping him, and they really couldn’t see what he had seen in me in the first place. Of course avoiding him was impossible on our tiny campus, especially since we had classes together and he kept being conspicuously present in places I happened to be. Besides, I still wanted to be his friend, because that was the mature thing to do. It’s hard to do the mature thing though, when you’re not really there yet and the other person can’t even find mature with a map and a guide. At one point, I actually dreamed that he was a giant baby — a bald, squalling, five-foot-ten infant — because even my subconscious was done being subtle.

But I got through it. And I learned a thing or eight about keeping myself far away from drama.

 

 

Just kidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toxic Relationship is Toxic -- Specifically, you can expect emotional manipulation, sexual shaming, basic unsupportiveness, and whining. 
> 
> Songs!  
> Elvis Costello and the Attractions -- [Kid About It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptGIW09UAoo) \-- because Mary Sue was in her college radio years.  
> Joe Cocker (written by Lennon/McCartney) -- [With a Little Help From My Friends](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fa-28dotvOg) \-- because I couldn't resist referencing it in the summary and because it just kind of fits the vibe, you know?


	5. Mary Sue's Second Time Trip -- 1981

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary Sue thwarts Gath'gor's evil plans once again, and this work finally earns its "explicit" rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary Sue will attend a performance of _Bent_ in this chapter. _Bent_ is a play that takes place during, and just after, the Night of the Long Knives in Germany so -- warnings for mentions of Nazis, the Holocaust, concentration camps, and the persecution of gay men at that time.

I’m lying curled up and facing the window on the far side of the king-sized bed. I can hear Fred and Laliari talking quietly across the table at the other end of the hotel room.

I rub at the grit in my eyes and try to figure out what time it is. It’s dark now. I checked in around three, I think. I finally remember that alarm clocks are things and that hotels have them. I turn the clock radio on the bedside table towards me. 9:06. I was supposed to meet up with Cece four hours ago.

“Hey guys,” I say.

Fred and Laliari turn toward me.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” says Fred.

“Any ideas yet?”

“I have contacted the _Protector_ ,” says Laliari. “I can’t speak directly to the crew, but the ship’s records indicate that she has passed all of her test flights and is functioning within expected parameters.”

“For all we know,” adds Fred, “it could be that Laliari and I caused some kind of temporal… thingy by coming back in time and then sending you further back. Everything could be fine, except for the fact that we’ve created duplicates of ourselves.”

“Just that little old thing,” I say. I sit up, and after checking to make sure that I’m wearing something below my waist, (pajama bottoms, I remember putting them on now) I swing my feet down to the floor. “I need to touch base with Cece. She must be worried.”

Fred nods. “Maybe you’ll see something on the floor that’ll jog your memory.”

He and Laliari still remember the original timeline, but as soon as I got back, my memory rearranged itself to match any changes that Gath’gor (and I) had managed to make. I could feel it happening, a weird sensation as if my brain had minnows wriggling around in it for a second. The hero of _Time Tripper_ had explained it as the brain physically creating new memories. If everything was working the way it had on the show — and so far everything was — I should also have the old memories, they just wouldn’t seem as real as the new ones.

The problem was figuring out what exactly had changed. Dr. Sexy had his lab assistant and a fancy computer to tell him when he made subtle changes. Without them though, those memories are like needles in my mental haystack.

And until we could figure out what Gath’gor had changed, we had no idea where (or when) to send me next.

“It’s worth a try,” I say, getting up and rifling through my bag for an outfit. I head to the bathroom to change and put on a little makeup.

 

On the floor, the cast is signing autographs. It’s hard to make them out through the crowd, but I see the distinctive profile of Alex Dane in his Mak’Tar prosthetic, and the top of Gwen’s blond hair. Fred’s there, which is a little weird even though I was expecting it. I work my way around the main room looking for Cece, but I don’t see her.

“ _Ker_ _’op tok, me’ humon?_ ”

Ah, the euphonious language of the Mank’Nar. Many people spent countless hours creating this conlang and it sounds like the Satanic backmasking of a cat choking up a hairball.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I know some of it.

The gloriously-attired warrior in front of me has just asked me if I’m looking for something.

“Uh, yeah,” I reply. “I’m looking for Cece Fleischer.” Anybody with this many thousands of dollars worth of cosplay on his person has to at least heard of her, I figure.

“ _Ker_ _’nok t’loq’a prok’, Q’a_ Cece _, me_ _’ humon?_ ” [You know the famed warrior, Lady Cece, little human?]

The guy’s no giant, but all Mank’Nar are supposed to be over six and a half feet tall, so they refer to anyone not cosplaying as “little human.”

“Yup,” I say. “Me and Cece go waaaaay back.”

“ _T_ _’Q’a su’aq t’nik ka m’roq_.” [The Lady (something) the room of epic songs?] _M_ _’roq_ is the main form of Mank’Nar literature — long poems meant to sing the praises of the courageous dead. In other words, wherever the zines are, so is Cece.

“Thanks! Uh… _h_ _’ro ker n’truq, Q’._ ” [I’m in your debt, warrior.] I’m pretty sure I mangle “warrior.”

“You’re alright,” he says, grinning, “even if you did just call me a houseplant.”

I head over to the dealers’ room. It takes me a few minutes to find Cece — she’s standing at the back, talking to a dealer I vaguely recognize. When she sees me, she rushes over and starts love-scolding me.

“Where the hell have you been?! I’ve been all over this con _three times_ asking everyone who ever met you once if they’d seen you!”

Then she hugs the stuffing out of me.

“I got in a little early, and I was pretty tired, so I laid down to take a nap. I must not have set the alarm right. I’m sorry, Cece.”

“Jet-lagged?” she asks, pouting sympathetically.

“Yeah.” Close enough, anyway. “And I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Poor baby.” She pets my hair a little. “You missed a great opening. We got permission to show ‘The Omega Crisis.’”

“Oh damn. I would’ve loved to have seen it. Who’s emceeing this year?”

“Fleegman. You remember him. He’s been the host of the Mank’Nar karaoke contest for a few years now.”

“The guy with the…?” I wiggle my fingers in front of my upper lip in the gesture universally recognized as “unfortunate choice of facial hair.”

“Yeah,” she concedes. “But I have to admit, he really knows how to manage a crowd." She pretends to look behind me. "Where’s Trent?”

“He decided not to come this year.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

I shrug.

“Poor baby,” she says again.

We walk around the dealers’ room for a bit. Cece’s chatting up a storm, and I’m trying to think of an excuse to sort of duck back out, when we amble past a dealer selling old ColecoVision cartridges of _Galaxy Quest: The Game_.

I stop. There’s something about the box. The art’s wrong. No, it’s right. Adam, a guy I dated the summer after my freshman year of college, had a ColecoVision, and I bought a copy of _GQ: TG_ for it. It was a pretty good title, although it had limited re-playability. It got solid reviews in _Electronic Games_. Adam always insisted on storing his cartridges in their original boxes, so I saw that art dozens of times in the three months we dated. (He ended up keeping the game. I kept his J. Geils Band and Joan Jett albums.) It featured Lazarus and Taggart holding ion nebulizers. The back had Tawny leaning over… something.

But I can sort of remember another, _different_ cover. Taggart and Tawny in an Action Pose. He has an arm around her waist and she’s leaning into him. There’s a big metal thingy coming out of the ceiling that just misses squashing them.

Chomper, says my brain.

What the hell’s a chomper?

I buy the cartridge. Ten bucks. Well, what do I expect from someone wearing an Avsnoylian Trade Guild t-shirt?

“Going to relive your misspent youth?” asks Cece.

“Something like that,” I say, making a little choking noise as I almost laugh at how close she’s coming to the truth.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem distracted tonight.”

“You know, I’m still pretty tired,” I say, happy for the out. “Maybe I should go eat something and get a good night’s rest. Be fresh for tomorrow.”

“Maybe you should,” she says. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

As soon as I’ve finished with the formalities, I head back up to my room.

I show Fred the cartridge.

“It used to be different,” I say.

Fred picks it up and looks at it.

“I don’t remember. I was never much into video games,” he says.

“It had something big and metal on it. I think it was called a ‘chomper.’”

“Chomper?” says Laliari, taking the box. She shakes it.

“The resonance mass dampeners,” says Fred. “Everybody called them the ‘chompers’ though.” I have to hand it to Fred — he remembers every gizmo, every part of the ship, every imaginary and real substance ever used in the show. I’ve watched him answer some epically wonky questions as if he were really the chief engineer of the NSEA’s flagship.

Laliari’s eyes get wide. “Without the resonance mass dampeners, the _Protector_ will be reduced to her component pieces if she’s attacked.”

“Those _do_ something?” I ask. I’m kinda sorta remembering them now. It feels like they were in a fic I read — not even a good fic, really. The basic idea was that Taggart had to get through some kind of gauntlet full of big clanging pistons in order to get to the emergency override. It seemed like a really stupid device that had no reason to exist other than to create some will-he-make-it-in-time tension. But apparently, the real _Protector_ needs them?

“The _Protector_ _’s_ shields use plasma,” says Fred. “If they’re hit by a resonance weapon, it’ll set off tiny vibrations at the precise resonant frequency of components in the ship’s hull. The resonance mass dampeners create a counteracting vibration. In other words, without the chompers, the ship will shake apart a few minutes after that first hit.”

Laliari is looking at Fred with her head in the classic quizzical tilt. “You’ve told me that you don’t really understand the technological aspects of the _Protector_.”

“I don’t,” he says, touching her arm. “I just played the character who most often had to explain stuff. I get the basics of how it’s _supposed_ to work, but I really don’t know how to actually fix things.”

Laliari gives him a look that says he fixes things just fine in her book, then she goes back to shaking the box some more. Fred opens it for her and the cartridge slides out.

“A supplemental document!” says Laliari, holding it up. “We were able to confirm the sequence of the resonance mass dampeners using this.”

Except that this cartridge has no chompers level.

“You got game cartridges from Earth?” Fred asks her.

Laliari nods. “There is much commerce in such supplemental documents, and much speculation as to the technologies depicted. We wish that we had had ground cannon such as those shown in the training document _Space Invaders_.”

Laliari picks up her PDA and starts poking at the screen. It suddenly starts projecting a 3-D plan of the _Protector_. Hey, mine doesn’t do that.

“This is the latest schematic that I downloaded from the _Protector_ _’s_ computer,” she says. She waves her hand around in the projection and it zooms in to the exact center of the ship. “This is where the dampening chamber should be.”

“It’s just an empty corridor,” says Fred.

“Okay, if Gath’gor managed to ruin this dampening chamber — why did I come back? Wouldn’t I have had to fix it first?”

“You thwarted his original plan,” says Laliari. “When he couldn’t carry it out, you came back here. This must be the result of a later attempt to sabotage us.”

“The chompers didn’t show up until the third season,” says Fred, “in episode 73 — ‘A Wrinkle In Space,’ It was one of Frank’s scripts. And there was a Writers’ Guild strike that year. ‘Wrinkle’ was the last script in the buffer, and it was too short. Frank added in the whole chompers sequence to pad the time. He got the idea from a music video that was shooting on the next soundstage. Anyway, the strike ended about a day or two before we shot it. Ros offered to rework it, but the set had been built already, so they just went with it.”

“So that would be what? 1981? June or July?” I ask.

“You’re pretty familiar with production schedules,” says Fred.

“Well yeah,” I say. “I worked on _Galaxy Quest_ for eight months.”

Fred’s face does a complicated kind of thing. “Mary Sue. I had no idea.” Stricken, I think, is the word for what Fred’s face is doing.

It hadn’t occurred to me that he would find this distressing. It often doesn’t occur to me, to tell the truth, and then — boom — I’ve ruined someone’s day.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I forgot to tell you. It took awhile.”

We just look at each other for a long moment. He’s not going to let me off the hook, and I’m not going to ask to be let off.

I smile and shrug. “Can’t be helped,” I say. “And I did learn a lot.”

Fred nods at me and smiles back. “Okay.” He looks at Laliari. “When did the 1981 Screenwriters' Guild strike end?”

She pokes at her PDA. “July 12th by your calendar,” she says.

Fred steps behind her and looks over her shoulder. “They were working on that set for about a week. The chompers were a prop left over from the music video, so they didn’t need to build those.” He looks up at me. “So do you think June 28th would give you enough time?”

I nod again. “Sounds good.” I point at the bathroom with my thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll just go get changed.”

“Thank you, Mary Sue,” says Fred.

“Hey, thank you. This is my big chance to make a difference, right?”

 

When I materialize in Frank Ross’s living room, knapsack over my shoulder and wearing the same outfit I left in, my hand over my eyes again because I _still_ do not want to see Frank naked, the first thing I hear is a very feminine and very terrified scream.

I peek. It’s Letitia. I think she’s just jumped up from the sofa. She’s dressed. Frank comes running in from the kitchen, also dressed. I take my hand away from my eyes.

“Hi, Frank. Letitia.” I say. “Sorry to drop in unannounced.”

“Mary Sue!” says Frank as he’s putting an arm around Letitia’s shoulder to comfort her.

“How the…? What the hell was that?!” asks Letitia.

“Mary Sue’s a…” Frank looks to me as if I know how to explain this mess.

“I’m a time traveler,” I say. I mean, fuck it. Nobody’s going to believe her except Frank and Elliot. And nobody would believe the three of them even if they were strapped into polygraphs.

“A time traveler?” she says, ducking her head a little and looking up at Frank like he’s her teenage son telling her that the cigarettes she found in his room belonged to a friend of his. She looks at me in much the same way. “From when?”

“I can’t say,” I say.

“Why not?” she asks.

“That would be telling.” I explain the whole Butterfly Effect thing. “I really shouldn’t say anything about specific events.”

“Okay,” says Letitia. “Well, honestly, it makes more sense than you having an affair with Frank.”

I’m not sure how it makes more sense, but I’m willing to go along with it.

“Why are you here, Mary Sue?” asks Frank, gesturing toward one of the armchairs. I sit in it while Frank and Letitia take the sofa.

“’A Wrinkle In Space,’” I say.

Frank sighs, shaking his head. “Complete pain in my ass. It came up about nine minutes short. I figured it was no big deal, Elliot or Rosalin could help me work it out, but they’re on strike with the rest of the Guild, and we’ve almost exhausted the buffer of scripts we had written.”

“But you’re getting ready to film it. How are you going fill those nine minutes?”

“I have Tawny crawling through the air ducts to get to the emergency override,” says Frank.

“For nine minutes?” I wrinkle my nose.

“Well, we cut back and forth to Chen giving her directions. And Laredo does a countdown,” says Frank.

For nine fucking minutes. Funny thing is — this is not how I remember it. I remember everybody getting upset that the ducts near the emergency engine override room were too small for any crew members to get through. Laredo sneaks away and starts through the ducts. Then there’s all these touching scenes — Taggart comforts Laredo’s mom, Chen and Lazarus stop feverishly working on… tech stuff long enough to tell each other what an honor it’s been to serve together, Lt. Madison is giving Laredo instructions as the computer tells her how it realizes that it has emotions because it feels sad at the idea of being separated from her. Seriously, this is the episode that launched the whole Tawny/ _Protector_ ship.

And I’m about to tell Frank that he needs to fill those nine minutes with chompers.

“Listen,” I say. “Picture this — a hallway with huge pistons coming out of the ceiling and walls. The pistons have slabs of metal attached to them. The Murghi invaders have started the self-destruct sequence, and Taggart has to get to the override room, but the Murghi have used the ship’s internal force fields to close off all of the corridors and air ducts near Engineering, but no one in their right mind would ever try to traverse this corridor of messy death, so it doesn’t have a force field to close it off. He has to do the usual duct-crawl — everybody loves watching Nesmith’s butt crawl through an air duct — but when he gets to this thing, this resonance mass dampening chamber, that’s when a nail-biting gauntlet ensues.”

“What the hell is a resonance mass dampening chamber?” asks Frank.

“Glad you asked,” I say. “It keeps the ship from vibrating apart in battle by setting up a counter-vibration to the plasma armor.”

Frank looks at the ceiling contemplatively. “Yeah, okay. That scans. Throws off any sympathetic vibrations.”

“Right.” I do a little nod that says, we both know it’s bullshit, but it sounds good. “Anyway, these things are pounding away. There’s no getting around, only getting through. Taggart has to time it just right or become squashed to a bloody, pulpy mess.

Letitia looks disgusted, but Frank’s very excited. “The Murghi commander is right behind him,” he says. “They fire on each other as they slowly work their way through.”

“Niiice,” I say.

“Sounds expensive,” says Frank. “The studio slashed our budget for this season.”

“Here’s the thing – I’m pretty sure the chompers have already been built. Just re-purpose a hallway to be the dampening chamber and voilà.”

“You make it sound easy,” says Frank.

“If it were easy, I wouldn’t still be here, would I?”

 

Frank lets me have the guest house again.

“In fact,” he says, “all of your clothes are still there.”

And sure enough, they’re right where I left them a little over seven hours ago — or a year and a half ago, depending on how you want to look at it. They smell like clothes that have been sitting in a drawer in an uninsulated California guest house for a year and a half. I grab up a bunch of them and toss them into the washer.

At least Frank had his housekeeping service vacuum and change the sheets once a week.

All of the food has been cleared out, so I take Frank up on his offer to eat with him and Letitia. We have eggplant Parmesan. Frank’s a pretty decent cook, actually.

My albums and tapes are still there, so after I leave Letitia and Frank to their date night (I don’t find out until the next day that Ingelill moved to Schenectady and Letitia is now living with Frank), I put on a mixtape while I do another load of laundry and put the knapsack away on its nail.

I put on a clean t-shirt and undies, and crawl into bed. My circadian rhythm has given up trying to figure what’s going on. It’s about 9:30 at night.

In the morning, I throw on a Bailey outfit and take a cab to Elliot’s place. I think there’s a bus, but I have no idea when it runs, and there won’t be a rail system to speak of for another nine years, so I just add to L.A.’s smog by procuring some private transit.

I knock on Elliot’s door. My plaid skirt and puffy-sleeved blouse still feel like a costume to me. I wonder if it’s appropriate to dress like Molly Ringwald yet?

I knock again.

Elliot finally answers. He’s wearing pajamas and a bathrobe.

“Are you sick?” I ask. I mean, it’s 8:30 on a weekday morning.

“No, I’m…” He squints at me. “Mary Sue?”

“No, _I_ _’m_ Mary Sue,” I say. Ba-dum-kshh.

“Mary Sue!”

“Elliot!”

“What the hell’s going on? It’s great to see you!” He grabs my hand and pulls me inside where he proceeds to hug me while exclaiming, “Look at you!”

“Look at me? Look at you!” I say. “Since when are you still in your P.J.s at this hour on a Monday?”

“I was up late with a sick friend. Besides, it’s not like I have to be at work. We’ve been on strike for the last two and a half months,” he says.

“Aren’t there picket lines or something?”

“Yeah, but I’m not due there for a couple more hours. What brings you here?”

This is the first time I’ve been in Elliot’s house. It’s very tasteful. Lots of potted plants and books.

“I needed to ask you what happened after I…” I wave my hands down my body, wiggling my fingers to indicate sparkly lights. “Frank said it wouldn’t look right if you came out to his place,” I say.

“No, probably not,” Elliot agrees. “Listen, I’m starving and there’s nothing in the house. Let me get dressed, and I’ll take you out to breakfast.”

“Sounds good,” I say. I’ve only had a cup of unsweetened tea so far today, and I only had that because the tea was in a tin that the housekeeper probably thought was a decoration.

Elliot gets dressed almost as fast as I do when I have an impatient Elliot standing in my living room. We go to a restaurant in a converted rail car. It has an ambiance that’s mostly old-timey elegance with just a little dash of kitsch. My grandma would have loved it. Honestly, I kind of love it.

I have French toast. I always have French toast. This place uses brioche for the bread, which is a stellar culinary decision, if you ask me. Elliot has some concoction of poached eggs and artichokes covered with Hollandaise sauce.

“So what happened with… Steve?” I ask.

“Well, after you…” He does the finger waving thing I did earlier. “The security guards cornered him. I made up some b.s. about coming down to the set because I realized that I had left my Thermos there and I didn’t want it all full of mold and gunk when I went to get it after New Year’s. I’d heard a noise and discovered Steve engaging in funny business.”

“Funny business?” I ask.

“It’s the restaurant. They shot a couple of gangster films here.”

Okay.

“Anyway,” Elliot goes on, “there wasn’t any proof that Steve committed a crime, so he didn’t get tossed in the hoosegow or anything, but a maintenance guy running around after hours in a security uniform doesn’t exactly engender a high level of confidence in the innocence of his intentions, you know? He was thrown off the lot that night and Frank had him fired. Everything calmed down on the set after that, and most of the cast and crew just accepted that it had been Steve the whole time.”

“Most of?”

“Well, Frank knows the truth, or part of it. When I went to talk to him, he said that everything was on a need-to-know basis, and all he needed to know was that the sabotage had ended and that you were gone.”

“It _is_ on a need-to-know basis,” I say. “If anyone else happens to find out, especially don’t tell them that aliens are involved. I shouldn’t have told you so much, but I never thought that you’d have reason to believe any of it.”

“I don’t think Alex buys the story completely. He’s pointed out that Steve only worked there for five months.”

“Perspicacious little cuss, isn’t he?”

“He also asked where you disappeared to so suddenly,” says Elliot.

“British actors,” I say, rolling my eyes. “They all think they’re Sherlock Holmes.”

That gets a laugh from Elliot.

“Well, speaking of deductive reasoning,” says Elliot. “I think it’s safe to assume that I broke that thingamabob that Lobster-Boy —”

“Let’s just call him Steve,” I say quietly.

“Steve?” asks Elliot.

I nod.

“Okay, I think we can assume that ‘Steve’ can’t change his appearance anymore.”

“I think you’re right,” I say. “He would have simply changed his disguise and come back later if he could.”

We both shovel some more breakfast into our mouths and ponder this for a moment.

“The question is — does he have a functioning appearance generator _now_?” I say. “I never asked if the generators were a Thermian technology, but they don’t seem like they would be. Thermians don’t lie, and a disguise is pretty close to lying.”

“You said they’re brightly colored and have tentacles,” says Elliot. “If their motivation is to make us comfortable, maybe they justify it that way.”

I shake my head. “That’s their motivation for _using_ them, but they aren’t even clear on the difference between deception and fiction. I can’t imagine them actually inventing them, that’s just not how their minds work, as far as I can tell. It would require more imagination and deviousness than they could muster. And if the appearance generators originate from some other group, Steve can get another one unless… I was told that he’s wanted all over the galaxy, and it may be safer for him to lay low than to betray his location by trying to contact an associate.”

We eat in silence for a few bites until Elliot says, “So what did he do this time?”

“I don’t know. In the original timeline, Frank runs out of scripts at episode 73. It’s one he wrote himself, and he meant to get with you and Rosalin about how to fill the extra minutes that the script runs short, but you guys are on strike. He happens to see a music video being shot and gets the idea that he can use some props from it to create an action sequence with Taggart traversing a previously unmentioned part of the ship known as the resonance mass dampening chamber.”

“And having this thing in the show helps the Thermians… somehow?”

I nod.

“When I talked to Frank last night, he said that he was planning on just having Gwen do another air-duct crawl.”

Elliot cringes.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know. And that’s how it went the first time too, but he saw the music video shoot and decided he could create a more exciting scene. When I talked to him last night though, he was still planning on the crawl. In fact, he seemed to not remember those props at all.”

“Steve somehow kept Frank from seeing the video shoot,” says Elliot.

I nod. “I told Frank about the chompers —”

“Chompers?” asks Elliot.

“Everyone calls them ‘the chompers,’” I say. “Can you imagine saying ‘resonance mass dampeners’ eighty times a day? Anyway, I told Frank about them and I’m still here, so Steve still has something up his sleeve.”

“So your plan is to just hang around the set again?”

I shrug. “I guess so. It won’t be the same without you though.”

Elliot rolls his eyes.

I insist on paying for breakfast. Elliot argues, but I finally convince him that it’s basically coming out of my expense account.

“You can get the next one,” I tell him. “After all, you’ll be getting a pretty sweet deal with the new contract.”

That brightens his day. He takes me to a grocery store and then gets me a cab back to Frank’s before heading off to the picket line.

 

The next day, I’m back at the studio.

I figure Linda DeScenna will know if a prop that looks like the chompers has been used on a music video lately, and I’m right. She knows exactly what I’m talking about. I call Frank and we all meet at one of the big warehouses where props are stored. As soon as he sees them, Frank is totally geeked about the new scene. He and Linda start planning the set. Afterward, I decide to take a walk around and re-acquaint myself with the crew a little — and maybe find out what’s been happening since I was last here four days ago (for me) or a year and a half ago (for everybody else).

One piece of big news is that Jason Nesmith and Gwen DeMarco are dating — unofficially, which basically means that the press isn’t supposed to know. Another piece of big news is that Alexander Dane _was_ officially dating model/actress Amber Joie, but they officially broke up about three months ago. There is some speculation as to whether Alex is heartbroken over the situation — some say he seems fine, others say it’s all a façade. Tommy Weber managed to break his leg while surfing just before last year’s season finale. He must have snuck away from his mom for five whole minutes.

Mostly though, everyone seems concerned about the strike and when it will end. Half of Hollywood is sitting on its thumbs while negotiations drag on.

Oh, and Jason absconded with Alex’s bike and hid it in some rafters. Alex retaliated in typical Alex fashion — by having Jason’s car towed away (and, rumor has it, made into coat hangers?!). I’d say it was over the top, but when you’re dealing with that level of willful stupidity…

I would go see how filming is going today, but I keep getting sidetracked on my way there. I finally remember that the third season premiere is “Hal’Pern the Magnificent” — one of the few episodes which centers around Tech Sgt. Chen. (This one guest-starred Joey Mellon, a magician who went on to have a long and lucrative career in prop comedy.) In other words, the one person I can’t interact with is on the set constantly today. I decide to go grab a bite to eat. I’m on my way to the commissary when I run into Alex Dane. He’s looking good (as usual). I see that his hair is a bit shorter now, probably to make it easier to apply the prosthetic.

He shocks the hell out of me by both remembering me and actually looking pleased to see me. Not that he lets that stop him from being a sarcastic fuck.

“Mary Sue,” he says. “How generous of you to grace us with your presence again. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Ooo! We’re doing the ultra-polite thing today, as if we are bitter enemies in a Regency romance. Fun!

“Alex.” I smile at him. “While my pleasure at again being on this set is acute, only business has the power to bring me here.”

“I hope that it does not steal you away again as precipitously as it did last time.”

He actually seems sincere, despite sounding like a character in a mini-series that _Masterpiece Theater_ decided to take a pass on.

“I’m afraid that it probably will,” I say, dropping the act now that we have verified that we can both be unbearably stuffy when we want to. “It’s not something that I have much control over.”

“Pity.”

“I… was just on my way to lunch,” I say, gesturing with my thumb in the general direction of where I was going. “Would you like to join me?” I feel a little bad about just disappearing right after we had buried the hatchet, so to speak.

“I wish I could,” he says. “Unfortunately, I’m due in makeup. There was a last-minute revision and I have to shoot another scene today.”

“Ah, I see. Well, it was nice seeing you again.”

“Yes, it was.” He is um… still hanging around.

“I don’t want to keep you,” I say. He looks a little puzzled, like maybe he’s lost the thread of the conversation. “From makeup, I mean.”

“Yes, right.” He turns to go, then turns back. “Do you enjoy the theater?”

“Yes?” I say, not sure where this is going.

“Would you care to accompany me to a production of _Bent_ tomorrow evening? I understand it’s a somewhat… challenging piece, but… I have an extra ticket. It seems a shame for it to go to waste.”

“I’d love to. _Bent_ is one of my favorites.” And it is.

“You’ve seen it?” he asks, surprised. Crap! When did _Bent_ come out? I want to say it premiered in London sometime in the late seventies. I think Richard Grant was in it. I love Richard Grant. Where was this going? Alex seems to have worked out a plausible scenario for himself though. “Of course,” he says. “I forgot that you live on the East Coast.”

I smile and sort of noncommittally move my head around a little. That’s it. I saw it on Broadway.

I have seen nothing on Broadway. I saw _Bent_ when the local university did it sometime in the mid-nineties.

Maybe he’d rather take someone who hasn’t seen it?

“Maybe you’d rather take someone who hasn’t seen it?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “No, I’d rather take someone with the intelligence to appreciate it. Which is why I asked you.”

Oh my. I never know what to do with compliments. It’s not that I don’t think I’m intelligent, it’s just that I don’t think I can take any credit for the situation.

“Okay, then. What time?”

“It’s a seven o’clock showing. I’ve no idea how bad traffic will be… I’ll pick you up at six? You are staying at Frank’s guest house?”

“Yes, I am. Six sounds fine,” I say. I almost say it’s a date, but of course it isn’t. His real date obviously fell through. He probably bought the extra ticket while he was seeing Amber. This is a friendly gesture. I mean, I’m ten years older than he is. And it’s not like I look magically younger than I am. I have natural skunk stripes in my hair, for goodness’ sake.

“Alright.” He nods at me with one of those glad-that’s-settled nods and heads off to makeup, while I go see if I can scare up some lunch.

 

It occurs to me that night that I have nothing to wear to the theater. My Bailey outfit is definitely not appropriate, and the velvet skirt I bought for the Christmas party is really out of season in June. It’s probably not fancy enough either. It seems like we dressed up more in the eighties.

Maybe Letitia has something she’d lend me? We’re built roughly the same. I have more belly, (especially since my period started yesterday) and she has more butt. As long as she has something that’s not too fitted, it should work.

It turns out that Letitia’s a total clothes hound. I borrow a long, black, silk dress that looks like a Greek toga except that it has a thick strap with silver beadwork on the shoulderless side. She’s surprised that I want to wear it. She bought it in 1978, she tells me. But it’s flattering in a way that most eighties clothes aren’t, and the thick strap means that I can wear a normal bra rather than having to hunt up a strapless. The fabric is so clingy that I have to leave my underpants off though.

I put my hair up, twisting it at the sides so that the stripes stay stripes instead of fanning out to cover the dark part of my hair and making me look like someone’s granny. I pick up a pair of cubic zirconia earrings and silver strappy sandals at the mall. That should be fancy enough for a friendly gesture outing, I think.

I guess Alex does too, because he tells me I look lovely. Two compliments in as many days. My head’s going to get turned for sure.

“You clean up pretty good, yourself,” I say. Not that he doesn’t dress rather nicely all the time, but tonight he’s very _Remington Steele_ in a dark blue double-breasted suit. As usual, I wasn’t quite prepared for this amount of sexiness.

Alex drives a sedate Pontiac — also dark blue. He opens my door for me. Friendly gesture or not, this is shaping up to be one of the nicest dates I’ve had in the eighties.

I clip my seatbelt, and, after a moment’s hesitation, so does Alex. I suspect it’s not a precaution he usually takes.

“Do you go see plays often?” I ask — making some conversation on the drive to the theater.

“I try to. Our production schedule doesn’t allow for it as often as I’d like. Why do you ask?”

“I know you got your start in theater — back in Britain. I just wondered if you’re still interested in it.”

“That’s a roundabout way of getting to the subject,” he says. Yeah, I’ve heard that before. “But yes, I’m still very interested. I miss it, although in some ways, I enjoy television more.”

“How so?” I ask, hoping this will keep him talking because I like the sound of his voice and I’m not sure on what level we are conversing yet. It was easier when we just sniped at each other, or when we were fucking around a bit yesterday. I’m not comfortable yet just... talking to him. It doesn’t help that I’m out of practice too.

“Television allows for a very different study of one’s character. There’s such a large amount of material to work with compared to theater or film. And it’s not as repetitive. I certainly don’t miss the struggle to keep a performance fresh while delivering the same lines night after night.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” I say, just a little too been-there-done-that, and I can tell from the way he glances at me that I’ve inadvertently put a couple of my cards on the table.

“You have acting experience,” he says.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I was a Theater major in college.”

“You wanted to be an actress?”

“I did, once. I discovered that I enjoy backstage work more. Or more consistently, anyway. I like problem-solving.”

“But you don’t do that anymore either.”

“No, I don’t,” I say, and I leave it at that. I don’t particularly like lying to him. “So you went from the Royal Shakespeare Academy to _Galaxy Quest_ ,” I prompt.

“I felt drawn to the role,” he says. “Dr. Lazarus is about as Shakespearean as they come, truthfully.”

“Noble,” I say.

“Touched by tragedy,” says Alex.

“Heroic.”

“Troubled.”

“Given to soliloquies,” I say.

Alex laughs, eyes crinkling up, shaking his head. It’s nice.

I need to quit noticing this stuff.

I do not quit noticing this stuff.

I notice that he suddenly has access to the letter R, and that he pronounces it with a little bit of a growl.

I notice the way his (broad) shoulders have relaxed.

I notice the way he places his hand lightly on the small of my back as he guides me into the theater, and again as we find our seats.

 _Bent_ is often staged in a black box theater, and this production is no exception. I can see why Alex probably had to get tickets far in advance. The place holds maaayyybeee 250 people.

I don’t want to spoil the play if you haven’t seen it. It’s about a German man named Max who brings home a Brownshirt for a bit of rough sex on the Night of the Long Knives. Max and his boyfriend, Rudy, have to flee when their home is invaded by SS agents who kill the Brownshirt.

I mean that’s how it begins.

The play is shocking, but many of the most lurid scenes are the ones that you know actually played out over and over again. The more symbolic scenes towards the end of the play are that much less likely to jar your ability to suspend disbelief.

Even knowing what’s coming, I’m enthralled by it.

It’s during the train scene near the end of Act I that I think to look at Alex. There are tears on his face.

So I take his hand. I don’t know if that’s comforting. My hands are tiny compared to his, but I do it anyway. He looks back at me for a moment and blinks once, slowly. Two more tears chase down his cheeks as he turns his attention back to the stage. He squeezes my hand gently, so I leave it there in his.

I’m not crying. Yet. There’s still Act II.

We’re quiet during the intermission.

As the second act begins, I take Alex’s hand again, and he covers mine with his other hand. We’re in this together, I guess.

The second act is set in the Dachau concentration camp. The Nazi guards wear stark black and white. The prisoners wear uniforms worn to grey and lighter grey. Everything is in greyscale except for the insignia — the red armbands of the guards, the yellow star on Max’s uniform, and the pink triangle on Horst’s. You’re forced to pay attention to voices and expressions. There’s nothing to distract from everything terrible and beautiful happening on the stage.

 _Bent_ is a play that generates controversy, some of it justified, but there’s no denying that it’s a powerful work of art.

Afterward, in his car, Alex asks, “Are you hungry?” His voice is thick and low — quiet. I suspect this is an offer to go to someplace bright and prosaic and decompress for awhile.

“Yes,” I say.

On the way to the restaurant, I pull the pins out of my hair and sort of fluff it loose. I sigh with relief. Wearing it up too long makes my head ache. Not that my head ached, but it was getting there. Alex apparently takes this as a sign that it’s time to lose his tie, so he does, tossing it into the back seat and undoing the first two buttons on his shirt.

We end up at a diner. Judging by the clothing of the clientele, it’s a popular spot for the après-theater crowd. We end up in a small booth.

Alex orders an omelet because that’s what one eats after the theater. I order a cheeseburger and fries because I’m not all that fond of eggs and I wasn’t kidding when I said I was hungry. I take off my glasses and set them on the table. I’ve worn them longer than I usually do today, and my eyes feel tired. I don’t know if it’s something to do with the tech that allows me to see Gath’gor or just the weight of the enormous lenses, but it’s taking-off-my-bra levels of comfort to remove them.

“The play was brilliant,” says Alex. “I can see why you love it.”

“It’s excellent storytelling,” I agree. “It’s manipulative, but in a good way.”

“It reminded me of _A Doll_ _’s House_ — the audience expects a moving narrative, but what’s being said at the end is shocking and unexpected.”

“Yes!” I say, getting a little excited. “The Victorian audience was expecting a melodrama — a vicarious thrill of danger and scandal. The end seems to come out of nowhere because it doesn’t meet societal norms, not because it’s unnatural. People go to this play expecting to feel pity for the poor homosexuals. They expect to watch them be victimized. They don’t expect the characters to transcend. They certainly aren’t expecting them to transcend because of their love for each other.”

“Did you expect it?” he asks.

“Well, I’ve seen it before. Tonight was more about that second reading where you marvel at all the ways the story comes together. But, no... I didn’t expect it the first time. I expected that any… satisfaction?” I shake my head. It’s not the right word. “… any joy that I got from the experience would have to be manufactured in my own head.”

“Joy?”

“Well, you know — any genius, any… sublimity. I expected medicine — and it is that, I suppose. But it’s more. It doesn’t beg.”

“It’s outrageous,” he says. “It demands empathy.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You can let it in, get a glimpse of how utterly ugly and beautiful humans can be, or you can reject it and remain stupid.”

“But you can’t have one without the other. You must engage with both.”

By this point we’ve both got our elbows on the table, leaning across, downright avid.

And it has been a very long time since I’ve had a conversation like this — the kind that doesn’t need to be watered down, muted, neutral, placid.

So of course this is when the waitress shows up with our orders.

Now I’m mainly occupied with getting food into my belly without getting ketchup on Letitia’s dress. I polish off the burger in about two minutes.

“You _were_ hungry,” says Alex.

I make my best chagrined face. “I got distracted and forgot to eat before we left.”

With the edge off my hunger, I’m able to eat my fries with some small amount of decorum. We talk some more about the play — the staging and costumes — dissecting it in that way that only a couple of theater geeks can. We know how the smoke and mirrors were used, and it doesn’t diminish the magic in the slightest.

We share a slice of cherry pie for dessert. By some miracle, I manage not to get that on Letitia’s dress either.

I even remember to put my glasses back on. Not that I’m in much danger of forgetting. The fact that the exit sign is nothing more than a red smear without them would have reminded me.

On the walk back to the car, Alex takes my hand again. Am I that unsteady in heels? I thought I was doing okay despite having avoided them for years now. When did _Moonlighting_ start? I need Cybill Shepherd to hurry up and make dress flats sexy.

We’re quieter on the drive back to Frank’s — tired and talked out.

But at one point Alex says, “I suppose it was too much to hope that they might have lived.”

I’m weirdly touched by this. He seems young and a little vulnerable. I wonder how much of his habitual cynicism is cultivated.

“They would have faced, what? Ten years I think, in Dachau,” I say. “And Horst would have been re-arrested and sent to another prison camp, most likely.”

“What?”

“Homosexuality was a crime in most of the Allied countries, as well. It still is in parts of yours and mine both. Anyone in the concentration camps for so-called legitimate crimes still had to serve their existing sentences.”

“That’s —” Alex’s mouth snaps shut and I can see the tension in his muscles as he grits his teeth.

“Yeah,” I say. “’Unfair’ doesn’t really cover it, does it?”

“’Vile’ doesn’t cover it.”

Neither of us say anything more until we get to Frank’s. Alex walks me to the door of the guest house, holding my hand again.

Just before we get there, he says, “Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

“Thank you for asking me,” I say. There’s a little stone border on the flower bed to my right. I step up on it and give him a brief kiss on the cheek.

He watches me until I’ve unlocked the door and gone inside.

 

In the morning, I’m a zombie. It takes two cups of tea before I’m with-it enough to get dressed. I’m glad I don’t have to be up in time to go to work with Elliot. Still, Frank likes to be in by nine o’clock at the latest.

At the studio, I immediately run into Jason Nesmith.

“Hey! My favorite consultant is back! What are you working on?” he asks, giving me that one-armed shoulder squeeze type of hug.

Love those.

Yes, I’m being sarcastic.

“The resonance mass dampening chamber,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Gwen comes wandering by and Jason flags her down. “Hey, Gwen! Look who’s here! It’s Peggy Sue.”

“Mary Sue!” says Gwen, hugging me. “How are you? It’s been so long!” She winks at me and says, “What’s with the disappearing act? I’ve had guys fall into a crack in the earth after I’ve slept with them, but you’re the only girl who’s done that.”

Jason’s head gently implodes.

“I got called away to another assignment very suddenly,” I say. “I left in the wee hours of the morning after Christmas.”

“Well, we need to catch up,” says Gwen. “Come have lunch with me later?”

“Sure, I’d love to,” I say. It occurs to me that Gwen would be exactly the sort of person to check out a band making a video on a nearby soundstage, especially if any of the members were particularly hot. She might know something that would explain why Frank hadn’t seen the shoot in this timeline.

Gwen pinches a bit of Jason’s sleeve and tugs on it. “C’mon,” she says. “We’re gonna be late.”

I go check on the chompers. A couple of carpenters are busy transforming a regular corridor set into the most notorious section of one of ColecoVision’s best-selling games. Linda’s also there, checking on the set.

“Mary Sue,” she says, nodding in my direction. “You always bring so many fun new projects with you.”

Yes, she’s being sarcastic.

“I would’ve thought you’d be happy for the change of pace,” I say. “At least it’s not spray-painting rocks.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve got a case of purple glitter spray paint I’ve just been itching to get to.”

“I’m sure you’ll still get your chance.”

“Well, at least with you here, I know this thing will get built right. I’ve got to spend this afternoon and tomorrow in the courtyard of a half-finished mall making sure that everything looks appropriately New Tev’Meckian for next week.”

Oh, they must be getting ready to shoot “Friends Never Forget” — the episode where Lazarus almost gets pregnant. It’s the only one where they visit the planet where the Mak’Tar refugees settled after the destruction of their homeworld. I remember when it first aired — it was just the biggest shock, finding out that Dr. Lazarus had been implanted with something called a volvac sac which contained the embryo of one of his siblings. Although he ends up not being pregnant, he’s still carrying the embryo. Everyone at Quest Con 3 had a theory about what would happen when he finally decided to carry it to term.

This episode also changed quite a bit of the fanlore surrounding what New Tev’Meck must be like. Dr. Lazarus doesn’t like to talk about his homeworld much, and most of what we did know came from “Escape From Tev’Meck” back in season one. That was one of Elliot’s scripts. The Mak’Tar, besieged by the Meechans and with only hours until their planet was to be completely obliterated, filled every available spacecraft they had with their young and shot them into space. The gambit worked, and the Meechans were unable to destroy every escaping spacecraft. The few that made it were rescued by the Alliance and the refugees were resettled on a previously uninhabited planet that was known thereafter as New Tev’Meck. The Alliance supplied them with scientists, teachers, counselors — everything they needed to put their society back together, but of course the scars lingered. All of this happened back when Dr. Lazarus was five.

Anyway, “Never Forget” was one of Rosalin’s. It was supposed to be in season two, but Frank decided to do “Parallax Premonition” — a spec script widely considered to be the absolute worst _GQ_ ever. “Never Forget” gave us an abundance of info on Mak’Tar biology (Female Mak’Tar create the embryos and the sacs which the male Mak’tar then carry around in something called the volvac chamber until they’re ready to gestate them in a pouch like a kangaroo) and even more stuff to speculate about. (Are there other Mak’Tar carrying their siblings? Does Lazarus have more than one volvac sac?) It’s the episode that spawned 100,000 fics — including a couple of my own.

I’m seriously wishing I could go watch them film it next week. Fred’s not in any of the location shots, so it’s possible…

…but I have to focus on the chompers.

Fuck.

Stupid chompers.

I go meet Gwen at the commissary where she’s already ordered a Chinese chicken salad and a Perrier. It sounds good, so I have the same.

“So how’s every little thing?” I ask her.

“Oh, pretty good,” she says. “The divorce sucked, but it’s over now. I’ve been seeing someone new.”

“Mmm. Jason. The crew told me.”

“Yeah, Jason. We’ve been trying to keep it quiet. It’s still new, you know? It’s not something either of us wants a lot of speculation about.”

I nod understandingly, as if tabloid interest in my love life is old hat to me.

“So, how’s that going?” I ask.

“Good,” she says, smiling. “Jason’s actually really sweet, very charming and funny.”

“I don’t know him very well,” I say. “But that does seem to be the consensus opinion.” Even most of the actresses he fucked during the first season seemed to agree with that assessment.

“I know you’ve probably heard that he was sleeping around a lot when you were here before.” Girl’s a mind-reader. “But he’s changed. I don’t think he’s even made a play for anyone since Amber Joie back at the beginning of season two.”

“He hit on Amber Joie?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “She doesn’t seem like his type.” She’s intellectual, confident, and more famous than he is, for three things. It only takes half a second to realize that none of that matters in the slightest to Jason. Of course he hit on her. She was right there, being female in his general vicinity.

“I know,” says Gwen. “Anyway, he crashed and burned. She was totally smitten with Alex.”

“Can’t say as I blame her. Alex is interesting.”

“I guess so. Anyway, it didn’t last. They couldn’t make the bi-coastal thing work.”

“That’s too bad,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” says Gwen. “I think he really liked her.”

“I heard Tommy managed to literally break a leg,” I say.

We chat for awhile about the local gossip and the writers’ strike.

We’re almost done with our salads when I remember to ask her about the music video.

“Someone said some band was filming here a couple weeks ago.”

“Yeah, Dïs Solutïon. I met the bass player — she was great, but they wouldn’t let anyone in to see the shoot. Their manager wanted to keep everything top secret until it premieres on cable next month. They have some kind of exclusive contract with a station that’s going to play nothing but music videos 24/7.”

Oh god, that’s right. We’re at T-minus 30 days until the launch of MTV. I remember watching it with Mi-Na at her house the summer before we started college. We didn’t have cable out in the boonies where I lived. I recall Dïs Solutïon as well. They were an all-woman glam band that had a couple of minor hits early on before fading back into relative obscurity. There’s a club in Grand Rapids that still books the eighties bands, and Dïs Solutïon plays there every once in awhile. From what I understand, they put on a great show.

Gwen raves for a minute about the general awesomeness that is Dïs Solutïon before noticing that she needs to get her butt to makeup.

“We should go out dancing or something fun if you’re going to be around for awhile,” she says as she’s getting up.

“Sounds great!” I say, hoping she’s just being polite.

I spend the afternoon asking around to see if anyone knows anyone who might have worked on the Dïs Solutïon video. Nobody does, but one of the cameramen does know the name of the song — “Artificial Heartbreak.”

Y’okay.

Frank and I head back to his place, dropping off the silk toga, along with a bunch more things, at the dry cleaners’. I prepay for the whole lot as a thank-you for letting me borrow the dress. When we get back, I put on a mixtape while I cook — panini with ham and apples and a little bit of leftover Brie that Frank had sitting around after a dinner party last Friday.

Then I shower and collapse into bed.

The next day is Friday. I do my usual rounds of the studio. Without Elliot and Rosalin around or the need to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb, I really don’t have much to do. I check the progress on the chompers set. The head carpenter asks me if it meets with my approval. I’m surprised by this.

“Linda said that if you didn’t like it, we’d have to change it eventually, so we should just ask you if it’s right to begin with,” he explains.

Okay. I’m not used to the luxury of just being able to examine the sets with the lights on and everything. They haven’t installed the chompers yet, but the holes for the ones coming from the sides have been cut, and they’re building the scaffolding to hold the ones coming from the ceiling. I don’t climb up there since I’m wearing a skirt today, but there’s not much to see on it yet, anyway. I make a mental note to wear jeans on Monday.

“Everything looks great,” I say, giving the carpenter a thumbs-up.

He nods at me and I get out of the way so that they can get back to work.

I decide that, since I have to be good and not go to the location shoot, I’ll at least indulge myself by taking a peek at the interior set for the house of Lazarus’s friend on New Tev’Meck.

That’s where I find Alex. He’s in makeup and just sitting in one of the chairs.

New Tev’Meck is one of the coolest sets Linda’s ever done (Well, really two of them — the exterior at the mall and the interior here.) The Mak’Tar live in extended family units. Each nuclear family has their own dwelling, but the houses are clustered around a courtyard and everyone helps each other out — taking care of kids, cooking meals, providing support for the sick or nesting members of the group. The look is very Space-Mediterranean — soft, thick walls, bright cushions, and warm light. Linda may have a budget of two nickels and a piece of used chewing gum, but she really knows her shit.

Alex sees me come in.

“Mary Sue, hello.” He smiles at me.

“Hey,” I say. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Once upon a time, I liked to hang out on empty sets and imagine what my character’s life must have been in that space too.

“Perfectly alright,” he says. “I had a half hour, and considering the revelations of next week’s script, this seemed like a productive way to fill it, but I’m due back in a few minutes.”

I sit on one of the bench-sofa thingies that Mak’Tar apparently keep around for lounging.

“How do you wrap your head around it?” I ask him. “It’s such a big change for your character.”

“I’ve known it was coming for awhile,” he says, “Rosalin told me at the beginning about the pouch and that Lazarus could become pregnant. Last season she went into more detail. I believe she already had this storyline planned. I’ve kept it in mind in my characterization, particularly the additional trauma that it represents. I wasn’t sure that they would actually go ahead with it, so I seldom allowed my performance to reflect it in any but the most subtle of ways. One thing about dark secrets, one’s character can be excused for wanting to ignore their existence.”

“True,” I say, smiling at him. That was basically how many of the fics that were written right after “Never Forget” dealt with it.

“Alex?” We can hear Frank calling from near the entrance to the soundstage.

“Over here,” Alex calls back.

Frank steps around the wall of the set. Have you seen Mary—?” He spots me. “I guess you have seen her.”

“Did you need something?” I ask.

“Sort of. There’s been a family emergency. Tish’s mom called and her great-aunt died this morning. We’re booked on a six o’clock to Baton Rouge.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. “How’s Letitia?” Only Frank’s allowed to call her Tish.

“She okay, all things considered. Lettie was the family matriarch, and obviously Tish was named after her.” Frank shakes his head. “Anyway, the point is, I have to leave right now and get packed. You need to come with me or find another way home.”

“I drove today,” says Alex. “I can take Mary Sue back to your house this afternoon.”

“Are you sure?” Frank and I ask in stereo. It doesn’t seem like an appropriate time to call “Jinx” though.

“Quite,” says Alex.

“Thanks,” says Frank. He pulls a key off his key ring and hands it to me. “Here’s the key to the main house in case you need it. We won’t be back until Tuesday evening.”

“I’ll hold down the fort,” I say.

“Good girl,” says Frank, turning to go. He turns back. “Try to let me know if you have to, you know, leave suddenly.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be here at least through the filming of ‘Wrinkle’ though”

“Okay.” Frank leaves.

“I’d best get back to work,” says Alex. “I’m sure you have mysterious goings-on to attend to.”

“Oh, tons of them,” I say.

“I’ll meet you at my dressing room at five-thirty? I believe I’ll be done by then.”

 

“Are you hungry?” I ask Alex as he’s driving me home.

“Famished,” he says, smiling. “But I own a wide variety of tinned soups.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “I have to cook for myself anyway. Let me make you something that’s not 72 percent salt.”

“That sounds delightful, actually. Thank you.”

When we get into the guest house, there’s a note on the counter from Letitia with a list of contact numbers and the information that there’s half a roast chicken in their refrigerator that I should eat so it won’t go to waste.

“How does chicken salad sound?” I ask.

“Terrific.”

So I head over to Frank’s and get the chicken. I notice an avocado in the fruit bowl and decide that it won’t last either. I’m going to have to get groceries before Frank and Letitia get back. I’ll replace the avocado then. I take the food back and shred up the chicken while Alex obligingly halves some cherry tomatoes for me.

He’s threaded up one of the classical music reels — a piano piece by Rachmaninoff. I forget the name of it. The guy at the record store told me it was the most romantic piece of music ever written. I have no idea if he was trying to sell me music or hitting on me — possibly it was both. The music is pretty, I decide. It’s familiar, but I have no idea where I’ve heard it before.

I take off my glasses. I tend to do that when I’m at home. I don’t need them to see what’s in this kitchen, because the kitchen is minuscule. (It’s fine — my kitchen at home isn’t much bigger, although it is better stocked.) But Alex is not a small guy. He’s over six foot tall and broad-shouldered, and I keep brushing against him. It’s been a warm day and I’m wearing a short-sleeved blouse, and he has his sleeves rolled up, and our arms keep touching in a way that I am very aware of. And I can smell him. I won’t bother with trying to describe that. Most people recognize that sensation of someone just smelling really _good_ and _right_ , and I’m not going to say that he smells like old books and horses or some such frigging thing. He smells like a person — a very attractive person.

Alex Dane just ticks my boxes.

Alex Dane ticks boxes I didn’t even know I had.

And he is very close.

And the most romantic piece of music ever written is playing.

I dump the ingredients for the chicken salad into a mixing bowl and stir them together, adding a little salt and pepper and a healthy spoonful of Dijon mustard. Between the avocado and the cherry tomatoes, the visual effect is Christmassy — which was, you know, less than a week ago for me.

I get some oatmeal bread from the cupboard and slice it, then I assemble the sandwiches and put them on a couple of plates. I’ve never actually had someone here for dinner. There’s really nowhere for two people to sit. I usually eat on the other side of the counter, but there’s only one stool. Finally, I shove the one ottoman between the two armchairs in the main area and set the plates there.

“There’s…” I open the fridge, “…orange juice or Riesling,” I say.

“The wine, I think,” says Alex. I fill two glasses, killing the bottle, and put them on a tray in the hopes that the tray will stabilize them a bit on the ottoman.

Alex is sitting on the floor with his back against one of the armchairs, so I follow suit and sit against the other.

“Did you bake this?” he asks, gesturing with the half a sandwich he’s holding.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, since my mouth is full of chicken salad.

“It’s very good.”

I swallow. “Thanks.” I mean, it should be. I’m a baker. But of course Alex doesn’t know that.

“So you acted in college?” he asks. “What plays?”

It’s a little embarrassing talking about my acting experience with Alexander “Royal Shakespeare Academy” Dane. I mean, it’s like meeting Jacques Pépin and telling him about the great scrambled eggs you made last week. I decide to throw out a small role.

“I was in _The Odd Couple_ ,” I offer. “I was a Pigeon sister, but not like Walter Pidgeon, like coo-coo pigeon.” I almost slip and tell him that a friend talked me into doing the female version for community theater a few years after I’d graduated. The female version doesn’t actually exist yet.

Too bad, really. I have a really funny costuming story about that one.

“Which sister?” he asks.

“I honestly don’t remember,” I say. “Whichever one had the ‘coo-coo’ line.”

“What made you decide not to pursue acting?”

“Ibsen. I actually played Nora in _A Doll_ _’s House_.”

“Ah, so you do know the play well.”

“Very. Anyway, it was just a lot, being the lead and going through that emotional wringer every night. I decided I wasn’t going to be a great actress. Or maybe I just lost my nerve. I don’t know. I suppose either way it’s the same thing — I don’t have the passion for it, and art requires passion.”

I realize I’ve left myself open to a line of inquiry that could lead to discussion about my writing, and I really, _really_ don’t want to go there. So before he can think to ask me what I do have a passion for, I say the thing I least expected to say.

“I did _Taming of the Shrew_.”

“Kate?” he asks.

“Bianca,” I say. “Sir, to your pleasure I humbly subscribe: My books and instruments shall be my company, on them to look and practice by myself.” I start off syrupy and end more than a little peevish.

“You have a bratty delivery,” says Alex, laughing a little.

“I was a bratty Bianca,” I say. “On a whim, I auditioned for her by playing the stereotypical annoying little sister — sticking my tongue out at Kate behind Baptista’s back. Getting into a little slap fight with her until Daddy showed up, then turning on the water-works. The director loved it. I had no hope of playing Kate after that.”

“Oh, poor thing,” says Alex, shaking his head. “You were born to play Kate!”

“Well, apparently I was more born to play Bianca, and at least Bianca gets to tell her husband where to stick it at the end. Kate has to give that godawful speech. But, what about you, Mr. Dane? Tell us all about your nights in tights.”

I mean, I know already, but it’s time to get the spotlight off me.

“I was Tybalt and Ferdinand and Richard III, of course.”

“Yes, you made quite the splash with that one.” I think he actually blushes a little at that.

“I did _Much Ado About Nothing_. I was Claudio.”

I grin at him.

“That’s your favorite,” he says.

I nod.

“Of course it is,” he says, knowingly.

I wonder if there’s some sort of secret Shakespeare code by which I’ve just laid my soul bare.

“Although _A Midsummer Night_ _’s Dream_ is a close second,” he says.

“What is this? Some highly specific form of clairvoyance?” I ask.

“No.” He laughs again. “I just… I find you interesting. The way your mind works.” He’s making eye contact and I can see that he’s got a lot of pupil going on. The tip of his tongue peeks out to touch his upper lip for a fraction of a second.

“Dessert?” I ask.

Because I’m smooth like that.

I pick up the tray, on which we’ve placed our empty plates and glasses, and take it into the kitchen.

Look, I’m not a kid. I’ve successfully negotiated this dance before — but it’s been a long time since I wanted someone quite this much. I mean, I’m ten years older than Alex, not that he knows that exactly, but I sure as hell don’t look like I’m in my twenties anymore. And his last girlfriend was a bona fide supermodel for chrissakes.

So I’m honestly just not sure that I’m not reading more into this than he’s writing, you know?

“Dessert sounds… good,” he says.

I put the dishes, except for the wine glasses, into the dishwasher. I have a wedge of Roquefort in the fridge, which I bring out and crumble up on the cutting board with a fork. I put a small frying pan with some water and sugar on the stove and turn on the heat. I grab a pear from the fruit bowl and start peeling it.

“May I help?” asks Alex.

I nod toward the pepper mill. “I need a bit of that, coarsely ground,” I say.

“And how do I do that, make it coarse?”

“Just turn the nut on the top of the mill a few turns counter-clockwise.”

I have the pear peeled by now, and I slice it into eight wedges before cutting out the core. By now the water is boiling and the sugar has dissolved. I stir it gently and add the pears. Alex has ground the pepper into a small bowl. I add a largish pinch of kosher salt to it.

“Would you hand me the vanilla?” I ask, pointing to one of the cupboards. “I keep it on the top shelf.”

While he does that, I get cream and butter from the fridge.

“Now what?” asks Alex.

“Now just a little time.” I use a wooden spoon to carefully stir the pears around in the caramel. I can tell by the way it bubbles that the water has boiled out and it’s getting close to the right color.

The smell of caramel and pears fills the room.

The tape on the reel-to-reel stops playing and rewinds itself.

“What’s your favorite Shakespeare play?” I ask, picking up the earlier conversation.

“ _The Tempest_. I would like to do it again someday, when I’m old enough to be considered for Prospero.”

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on —” I recite.

“— and our little life is rounded with a sleep,” he finishes.

The caramel is dark enough, and the tape begins to play again. I fish the pears out of the pan and whisk the butter into the caramel, then add a splash of cream along with the pepper, salt, and vanilla. I put the pears back in the pan and sprinkle the whole thing with the Roquefort.

I grab a fork from the drawer and cut off half a pear slice with the edge. I stab the bite of pear, then a little of the cheese. I swirl the bite in the caramel and hold the fork up for Alex.

“Try it?” I ask.

Rather than take the fork from me, he wraps his big hand around mine and brings the fork to his mouth.

He’s watching me watch him and his perfect lips and pink tongue as he takes the bite from the end of the fork.

I think he may want to have sex with me.

He also really likes the pears. His eyes close and he growls out quite possibly the hottest yum noise I’ve ever heard.

It takes me about nine and a half seconds to have a complete sexual fantasy where I blindfold him and start feeding him things — hot chocolate spiked with chilies, whipped cream with bourbon, mascarpone and honey, figs. I want to split open figs with my hands and hold them as he licks and eats out the pulp. I want to press mangoes between his Cupid’s bow lips with my fingers and have him suck the juice from my thumbs.

And then I want to feed him my nipple.

“This is the most exquisite thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” says Alex.

I giggle just a little hysterically and give him the fork. I grab another from the drawer and we proceed to eat dessert straight from the pan while standing in the kitchen.

“This is truly wonderful,” says Alex. “This whole evening… the meal… we should do this again.”

“How about breakfast?” I say, because nothing ventured, nothing gained. Because I really want this. Because I really want _him_. Because this impossible opportunity should not be wasted.

“Breakfast? Like…”

“Like tomorrow morning.”

“Are you asking me what I think you’re asking?” asks Alex.

“If you think I’m asking you to spend the night here, in my bed, and then in the morning I’ll let you chop onions for huevos rancheros, then yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

What seems like the world’s longest pause ensues.

As if I wasn’t already aware of just what a subjective thing time can be.

“Madam, you haven’t even kissed me yet.” He’s smiling that sly, crooked smile when he says it.

“Your head is way up there,” I point out.

He leans forward and touches my forehead with his own.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better,” I agree. I place my two hands on either side of his big, shaggy head and, tipping my face up a little, I kiss him.

I try to take it slow, despite wanting to map his entire hard palate and taste the underside of his tongue immediately. However, I can’t resist tracing the edge of his lower lip with my tongue.

I’m not being off-puttingly forward, I guess, since he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer.

And since his mouth opens against mine.

Well, who am I to turn down such a kind invitation? I lick into his mouth, past the edge of his teeth, to caress the tip of his tongue. He tastes of caramel and salt and the indescribable flavors of blue cheese and pears. And, of course, he tastes and feels like another person — that slightly-left-of-familiar taste of a mouth that’s not your own. I’m often struck by the weirdness of this act — this desire to taste what the other person takes for granted, as if we can know some important secret about the other by knowing the texture that lays against their tongue every day.

Of course there’s also the fact that it feels heavenly. Everything about Alex feels heavenly — his big, warm body and his breath against my cheek and the tiny muffled sounds he’s making. His hair under my hands.

I want him. I want him naked under me. I want him to let me explore more than his mouth and his mind, although I want to keep on exploring those as well. I want in — just a little. I want buried treasure — not the whole cache, mind you, but a coin, a keepsake, a talisman, something to hold in my hand on a distant night.

I break away from him, worried that the lack of oxygen is making me a little daffy.

“So you’ll stay for breakfast?” I ask.

“It would be my pleasure,” he replies, pressing his mouth once more to mine.

Well, if he insists…

A few more kisses shouldn’t kill too many brain cells.

“I need to, um, lock up,” I say a few minutes later.

“Alright.” He steps away while gently helping me to regain my balance. I hadn’t even realized how far backward I’d been bending.

I check the French doors off the kitchen that open onto the rest of the compound. I lock the smaller door that faces the garage and parking area. I double-check the stove to make sure all of the burners are off.

Then I take Alex’s hand (a gesture that I’m becoming very fond of) and lead him down the stairs to the bedroom.

He sits on the bed, taking off his shoes while I check the French doors leading to the deck. I pull the drapes. There are a good many plants between here and the nearest neighbors, but they can still see straight into this bedroom from about a third of their upper windows.

I take off my glasses and set them on the tall dresser. Then I kick off my sandals and go to Alex where he’s still sitting, shoeless now, at the edge of the bed. I stand between his knees and put my hands on his shoulders and kiss him again from this new angle, which is just as charming as the last one, with the added bonus of being easier on my back.

I hook two fingers behind the still-fastened second button of his shirt, brushing my knuckles softly over his skin. His mouth and breastbone are the center of the goddamn universe as far as I’m concerned right now.

But —

“Are you sure?” I ask, pulling back just enough to see his face in the light spilling down the stairs.

“Positive,” he says, placing his hands high on my hips and hauling me closer.

So I kiss him again, and his lips are sweet and warm, and his mouth is sweet and warm.

And I start working those buttons open, one by one, tugging his shirt out of his pants as I go. He doesn’t have quite enough chest hair to comb through. It’s just a dusting, really, and surprisingly soft, though I can see that it thickens into a definite treasure trail below his navel.

I stroke his collarbones, his throat, touch the curve of his ears before sliding my hands back down and across his shoulders, pushing off his shirt. I place my hand over his pectoral muscle, the slight curve of it just filling the hollow of my palm. I rub a little circle. His nipple peaks under the heel of my hand and he inhales sharply.

Oh, the things I want to do to him.

I was at a better height for the majority of activities that immediately spring to mind when he was also standing up though.

I fix that by kneeling on the floor.

You know, I’ll say this for whoever laid the carpet in here — they didn’t skimp on the pad.

We’re still kissing. Alex has his fingers buried in my hair, no doubt tying knots that will take an hour to work back out, but I don’t care — _can’t_ care while his strong fingers press and rub at my scalp. His tongue is in my mouth and I’m sucking gently, hoping he gets the message to keep it there, and my hands can’t decide if it’s better to stroke his flat, hard stomach or the softer tissue just above his ass.

When we come up for air again, I tug at his left sleeve. “Off with it, please,” I say. And smiling at me, not taking his eyes off me, he obliges.

Oh, he is easy on the eyes. He’s broad-shouldered, as I mentioned before, and he has the strong arms and core of a young man whose job requires a fair amount of physical activity. Maybe he spends time in a gym. Lots of actors do, but I’m betting his body is more the product of stage combat than working out.

I put my hands on his knees and lean forward to kiss his cheek and his jaw and his neck. He leans a little and tilts enough to grant me access to whatever parts I’m after.

He is delicious. He tastes of salt and skin and a faint trace of soap. No doubt he took a shower in his dressing room after spending seven hours on a hot soundstage.

I press my lips to his pulse. I flick my tongue out to touch. I can’t seem to stop tasting him or breathing him in. My ears prick up at every sound he makes — his quickened breath, the rustle of his clothes. My hands can’t rest anywhere. I finally hook the first two fingers of each into the waistband of his pants, hoping that will hold the greedy things still.

I kiss a line down to his left nipple.

Oh, that is exponentially better. It hardens immediately in my mouth, and I suck it, lick it, roll it around with my lips and tongue. And Alex…

Alex makes a noise I’ve come to associate with particularly good desserts… pears in caramel sauce, say.

His voice is already a gorgeous thing when he’s just talking — telling me that he’s so bored that trading barbs with me is better than nothing. It’s even better when he’s relaxed — when the pronunciation becomes a little less received — when he’s telling me he’d like to play Prospero someday.

But when he’s aroused? When he’s gone beyond words at all — it’s like warm oil being spilled down my spine. And I can feel where it’s pooling.

And _that_. I want more of that.

I unfasten his pants, work the zipper down. I hook my fingers, all of them this time, back into his waistband.

I take my mouth off his left nipple long enough to say, “Lift your ass, Alex,” and drag pants and underwear both down his hips before transferring my mouth to his right nipple.

I work his clothing over his knees and down his calves, getting the socks too, as I go. With my mouth still on his chest, I can’t really see what I’m doing. I’m just going by feel.

I finally work everything off and free of his body, tossing it all… somewhere else. I stretch up and kiss him again before I tip my head down to look at his cock.

In retrospect I should probably have expected it. But what can I say? One doesn’t often come across foreskins in my demographic.

“Oh!” I say. “I’ve never seen one of these in the wild.”

“A prick?” asks Alex, just smartassed enough that I know he knows what I’m talking about. I very nearly bat the damned thing, but that’s not something I do without having a Bit Of A Talk first, you know?

I wrap my hand loosely around his cock, over the foreskin, and move it just a little.

“Anything I should know?” I ask. I look into his eyes, still slowly moving my hand just an inch or so up and down.

He’s actively trying not to laugh now.

“I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

I sit back on my heels and check out the equipment. Alex’s penis is dark — sort of a smoky purple color, just a little lighter and rosier at the tip which peeks out as I move my hand. It’s thick, but not abnormally long, and it curves down slightly. The foreskin is an interesting novelty, but it doesn’t seem to really make much difference. His balls? Well, there’s not much to say about balls, really. The left one hangs a little lower? They feel good, though — nicely warm and heavy in my hand.

“What I meant was — is there anything in particular that I can do with this that turns you on?”

“My balls?” He’s a terrible, terrible person.

“Alex,” I say in that tone of voice your mother uses when she’s warning you about the thin ice your walking on. “Your foreskin, Alex.”

His mirthful fit sort of dies out. We’re looking at each other over his cock, which I am still slowly and softly stroking.

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

Ooo, there’s something. I wait.

“Your tongue,” he says. “Under it. Licking the head.”

Oh, interesting. This has reduced him to sentence fragments.

I file away for (hopefully) later the information that talking about what he wants also seems to have an effect, judging by the way his cock twitches in my hand. I scoot up closer, settling in and getting comfortable.

Here’s the thing about sucking cock — it’s an incredibly tedious chore when I’m just doing it as a favor, but it’s absolutely mind-quieting and intensely pleasurable when I really want to.

And right now, I really want to.

I nuzzle against Alex’s thigh, centering myself as if for meditation or prayer. I breathe him in. Feel free to imagine all the old books and horses you want, because he smells like Alex, only more so, and I can’t exactly bottle it for you.

I press my tongue flat against the root of him and drag it slowly up. I can hear Alex’s hushed gasp at that. I am in complete agreement. I do it again. It’s beguiling, the feeling of him becoming thicker and harder under my tongue.

On my third trip up his warm-plush cock, I lick across the tip.

Oh, that’s different — going from the soft velvet texture of skin to the satin of his glans, going from the subtle flavor of cock to the salt of pre-ejaculate without the more gradual transition I’m used to.

I hold him steady in my fist as I start working my tongue under his foreskin and swirling it around the head of his cock. I glance up to see if he’s watching, but he’s leaning back, hands on the mattress, arms straight and tense under his weight, and his head’s tipped back – eyes closed, breath ragged, lips parted. I turn my own attention back to what I’m doing, happy to not have hitting my marks to also concentrate on.

Because the sensations are utterly absorbing, truth be told. I love the way my tongue is surrounded by all of this soft skin and salt. I love this feeling of delving, of probing this arcane spot on his body.

And I’m captivated by the sounds Alex makes as he comes undone. He really wasn’t kidding when he said he likes this.

Oh, I want to know everything he likes. I want him to tell me every little nook and cranny where he’d like my tongue to lick or my hands to touch. And then I want to hear the incoherent helpless sounds he makes when I do whatever he has hesitatingly asked of me.

In fact, I like it so much that I keep tonguing him until my hair has all fallen annoyingly forward. I try to flip it back over my shoulder. Alex reaches out and gathers it up, holding it bundled messily in his fist.

“Mary Sue,” he whispers. “Mary Sue, please…”

Apparently, he’s beyond even sentence fragments at this point — just my name and a little pleading. He flexes his hips slightly, pressing himself a few inches further into my mouth.

I let my lips slide down his cock until the tip of my nose just brushes the fur on his belly. That’s all the farther I can go, I’m afraid. I wrap my hand around the bit that I can’t get into my mouth, and move back up to the tip, applying a bit of suction as I go.

Alex doesn’t try to guide my motions. He just holds my hair and moans as I continue moving up and down his cock.

And he’s still whispering my name. And the names of a few deities. And various expletives.

It’s adorable.

“Ah!

“Jesus that is… Oh God!

“Fuck.

“Mary Sue.

“Fucking Christ.”

And a bit blasphemous.

In the meantime, my thighs are clamped together like I’m trying to create a diamond between them. Maybe I am.

Suddenly, he tugs my hair. Not too hard, just enough to let me know that he’d like to interrupt.

I pull off his cock with a slight popping sound, which I must confess, makes me giggle. Alex sits up and kisses me — messy and graceless and wonderful — until he runs out of breath.

“I’m going to come if you keep that up,” he informs me.

“I thought… Isn’t that the point?” I ask.

“I should —”

I shake my head. “You should tell me what you want. If I don’t like it, we’ll pick something else.”

He looks at me for what feels like around a week, but is probably less than two seconds.

“I want…” Dear god — he blushes. “I want to come. Now.”

I kiss him, let his tongue slide in against mine. Let him taste before pulling away.

“In my mouth?” I ask.

“Yes. In your mouth.” His voice is quiet and rough and I shiver.

I put my lips around the tip of his cock. His foreskin has long since slipped entirely back, but I tongue the head and slit a little before taking him slowly back into my mouth.

His hand is still wound into my hair. Briefly, he reaches out with his other hand and strokes my cheek, touches my lips, before he puts it back on the mattress to once again brace himself. He isn’t leaning back quite as far as before, just enough to give me room.

We continue — me sucking up and sliding down, working my tongue around whenever the inspiration hits me, and Alex making cute, sexy noises and cursing a bit louder than before. I fall back into my bubble where there’s nothing but the taste and texture of Alex’s cock, his scent, and the sound of his voice.

Just as I’m getting to the edge between wanting to do this for the next hour and getting a little tired, he comes, surprisingly soundlessly, breath held, muscles tense. I jam him in as far as I can take him, mostly because I find it easier to swallow that way. The taste is fine (great even, in Alex’s case), but the texture… I can’t eat raw oysters either.

I slip up and off his cock one last time, giving it a little kiss on my way. I smooth my hands over his hips. At this point, he’s abandoned the effort of trying to stay sitting up. He’s lying back on the bed, the hand that was bearing his weight flung out beside his head. His other hand unclenches my hair and takes one of my hands instead. He pulls on it, drawing me up off my knees to lie down beside him.

He holds me and kisses me for several lingering and thorough kisses, tasting the inside of my mouth.

“You like it?” I ask.

He smiles at me. “Ask me again someday,” he says. “You’ve exposed me enough for one evening.”

“I’m like a sex ferret, getting into everything, uncovering all your secrets.”

He kisses me again, probably to shut me up.

“Your turn,” he says.

“My turn for what?” I ask, innocently-but-not-really-innocently.

“Getting exposed.” He tugs at the button on my blouse.

“Oh, that.”

So I stand up and Alex sits up — a polite and attentive audience.

This part is always a little nerve-wracking. The trick is to ignore years of socialization and media portrayals of women’s bodies and just be confident. Or, you know — at least pretend to do that. Fake it ‘til you make it is actually a pretty good strategy here.

But I’m really wishing that Alex’s last girlfriend hadn’t been a supermodel. I remind myself that a.) knowing Alex, there was something else that he liked about Amber, b.) he’s here and enjoying himself and he’s already got a fairly accurate idea of my basic shape, and c.) this is, despite its near-inevitability, my hang-up, not his.

So I stand, not quite close enough for him to touch me, in the light still coming from upstairs, and proceed to take off my blouse and my bra. I make sure that he can see that I haven’t shaved my pits since I wore Letitia’s evening dress. It’s best to let a guy know from the outset that I don’t let a razor near that area very often. It saves on unnecessary conversations later.

Then I remove my skirt. I realize at that moment that my underwear is slightly anachronistic. High-cut and high waisted panties aren’t quite the style yet.

I try not to start laughing at the faux pas that (probably) only I noticed.

Alex’s attention seems rather fixed on them though. I shuck them quickly. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s as I’m peeling them off that I notice what really caught Alex’s eye — they’re visibly damp.

What can I say? I’m also enjoying myself. Anyway, the stripping’s done, and Alex now knows that I keep my pubic hair cut short. All of my grooming habits are out of the bag, so to speak. And if I’m not a hundred percent happy with the way my body looks, Alex seems to be pretty appreciative of it, judging by the way he’s looking at me. And god knows I’m feeling very appreciative of his body. And that’s enough to be getting on with, I guess, so I set it aside in favor of the fact that, right now, my body _feels_ unequivocally amazing.

Alex holds out his hand, and I take it, thinking how much I like it — his hand, I mean. It’s large and warm and gentle and it makes me feel things like safe and wanted in ways I’m not sure I completely understand yet. I shiver a little as I let Alex guide me toward the bed.

“What is it?” he asks. I mean, even with the AC on, this room is in no way cold.

“Just my nervous system being wacky,” I tell him. Saying that a cat walked over my grave seems a little creepy. On the other hand the phrase “sex ferret” did come out of my mouth earlier.

“Mmm,” he says. Whatever that means.

He lets go of my hand in order to place his own on my waist. He skims them down over my hips and ass, urging me a little closer until I’m standing between his knees again.

I place my palm against his cheek and comb the fingers of my other hand through his hair. He leans into my hand and looks up at me. I can’t help smiling at him — he looks so sweet and relaxed. The crease between his eyebrows is nearly invisible.

Of course, it might just be the angle.

I kiss his nose, then his mouth.

He kisses my chin, then my neck.

An entire colony of cats walks over my grave. The thick, growling chuckle an inch below my ear doesn’t help.

He nips me, just a little one, followed by a lick. I gasp and whine, and I can hear him laughing again, so low it vibrates my skin. His breath tickles me and my greedy little hands roam from his hair to his neck to his shoulders (which are freckled. How adorable is that?) and back again. He is just a lot of good things, and I want to sample all of them right now.

And he is kissing lower — clavicle, rib, the swell of my breast. My hands still. My breath stills.

All of my wants are superseded by this one longing.

Lower, I think. Another inch.

He places a hand under my breast and lifts it.

Breath tickling my skin.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Please what?”

Oh, bastard.

“Suck my nipple, Alex. Please,” I add.

He brushes it carefully with his lips. I press closer to him, and he finally takes pity on me and draws the peak into his mouth.

And draws and draws, as if pleasure and sensation are something that can be given to me by pulling them through this stiff point of my flesh.

I keen.

My hands are on Alex’s shoulders again, and I’m holding them in a failing attempt to stay upright. He puts his arm around my hips and holds me tight, securing me, keeping me from falling.

I’m cradling his head and whimpering a chaotic litany of nonsense that basically boils down to _keep doing this thing_.

“Yes yes yes gods yes Alex yes.”

Hell, Alex was a Nobel Prize-winning poet compared to me.

He releases my breast and says, “They’re sensitive.”

“Yeah,” I say, weak and shaky. “What was your first clue?”

Another low, nearly subsonic chuckle and he dips his head to capture my other nipple in his mouth.

I go back to being stupid with pleasure.

By the time he releases it, I’ve nearly fallen into his lap. He slides a little further back on the bed so that his ass isn’t right at the edge and then arranges me so that I’m side-saddle across his thighs. This brings our heads even.

“Oh, hello,” I say.

“Hello.” He’s smiling again. He has one arm around my waist and I have mine around his neck.

He strokes my cheek, my neck. He cups my breast, and flicks the nipple, just once, with his thumb. I jump a little, and he grins. He splays his big hand over my belly, pressing against the soft abundant flesh there, and kisses me. He places his hand between my slightly open thighs, palm against my mons, fingers against the warm, saturated fur of my labia.

“Anything I should know?” he asks.

I nod. “It’s sensitive. Like, too sensitive. I actually find direct contact painful, but if you put two fingers here…” I reach down and put my hand on his, pressing his first two fingers between my outer labia and showing him how to arrange them on either side of my button. He moans as he touches the hot slick flesh. “…And stroke softly, and keep everything very wet…” I coax his fingers back toward the well, then forward again. “…that will do the job.”

And he does the job — slowly, methodically, thoroughly, eyes on mine — and it’s as if that warm oil from before is replacing my blood. Heat and deliciousness radiate from the center of my body — down my legs, which fall further open — and up to my head, which I rest on Alex’s shoulder.

I’m quieter than before, when he was tonguing my breast — breathy and sort of moaning-whining-sobbing into his neck.

He’s the one who’s talking.

“Sweet. Such a warm soft cunt. So wet and swollen. Did I do this to you? Hmm? Is this for me? All this sweet, slick juice?”

“Yes.”

“Lovely. Gorgeous. I can feel it trickling down my thigh, Mary Sue. Did sucking my cock make all of this?”

I nod, shivering.

“I know it did. I saw your knickers earlier. They were practically dripping. So delightfully wet.”

I can’t stop shivering now. Everything in me is reaching.

“Are you close, sweetheart? Will you come for me, Mary Sue?”

I nod again.

“Brilliant. Perfect. Come for me, sweetheart.”

And I am — floating, flying, suspended and tethered to his hand on my quim. Moving as fast as light in a void, no wind, just speed — I am moonbeams and starlight.

I am vibration.

I am squeezing Alex’s hand so tight between my thighs, that I’m worried I might break it.

“Sorry,” I say, as I float back down and convince my knees to part again.

“No harm done,” he says, hold up his sodden hand and wiggling his fingers.

I kiss him while he wipes his hand on the spread.

I don’t even give the slightest fuck about the laundry.

He pulls the spread and the flat sheet under it down the bed. Then he slips his arm behind my knees and stands up. He turns and lays me in the bed, crawls in beside me, and pulls the covers up over us both.

I fall asleep in his arms.

 

I wake up there too.

I roll over so that I can see the clock on the bedside table. 3:16 a.m. That’s about right. I have a smallish bladder, so I’m up almost every night sometime between three and four.

I wriggle about eight miles to the far side of the bed. It’s a California king, but Alex and I have been cuddled up like we’d been sleeping on a twin.

In the bathroom, I pee and survey the damage.

Hair — hopeless.

Skin — glowing.

Mouth — like I ate pure sugar then went to sleep without brushing. Which is exactly what I did.

Nipples — less tender than I’d thought they’d be.

Genitals — sticky and happy, but all that drying lubrication is starting to itch, plus I have no idea where-all it’s gotten on me.

I pile my rat’s nest on top of my head and poke a couple of hair sticks into it to keep it there. Then I hop into the shower to give everything below my neck a quick going-over. I hop back out, towel off, and brush my teeth.

I’m busily scrubbing the gunk off my molars when Alex appears in the doorway behind me. Because of the tininess of the guest house, the bathroom door down here is a slider, and it’s very loud, which is why I didn’t close it in the first place.

Anyway, there’s Alex, leaning in the doorway, hands clasped under his navel, no doubt lured hither by many of the same factors that brought me. I open the drawer to my right, and pull out one of the dozen, plastic-wrapped toothbrushes. I’d always meant to ask Ingelill what the heck was up with them, but I forgot. I hold up the toothbrush.

Alex comes into the bathroom and takes it from my hand. He kisses the back of my neck and murmurs, “Thank you.” I consider leaning back into him a bit, but it would be bad manners to give the poor guy an erection when he probably needs to piss. I settle for spitting out my toothpaste and rinsing my mouth.

“You’re welcome,” I say. Then I give him a kiss on the ball of his shoulder (because I haven’t grown enough in the last few hours to reach his face) and a pat on his hip, before I cede the bathroom to him.

Watching me brush my teeth was probably enough casual intimacy for this point in our… I refuse to think further than that.

Back in the bedroom, I pull on my robe and head upstairs to turn off all of the things I neglected earlier. I get about three steps up before I remember to turn on the bedside lamp so that I won’t have to turn on the overhead light or else be blind when I come back. Upstairs, I stop the reel-to-reel and power down the stereo. I’m about to turn out the lights and head back down when it occurs to me that I have condoms in the knapsack.

And I may want those later.

I have an IUD. Yes, I know Dalkon Shield et cetera, but that thing’s long gone. It was Mi-Na (who actually gets off of the North American continent once in awhile) who pointed out that tons of women in Europe and Asia use them with no problem. Once I was over the mental hurdle, I still had to pay for it, though. In the end, I went to Canada to get it, like some kind of reverse socialist nightmare cautionary tale because it was one third the out-of-pocket expense there as it is here and Windsor is so close, you know? And let me tell you, when people start in with the scary propaganda about socialized healthcare and how they know someone whose foot fell off because they had to wait six years to see a doctor in Vancouver about an ingrown toenail, I tell them my little tale of woe, but the sorts of people who tell those stories don’t really want to hear about the travails of a slut, so there.

Anywho, IUDs don’t prevent HIV, which is around now, even though it doesn’t have a name yet.

So I grab three of the condoms out of the knapsack and slip them into the pocket of my robe.

When I get back downstairs, Alex is just coming out of the bathroom.

“No more making love to Rachmaninoff’s _Piano Concerto No. 2_?” he asks.

“Is that what that was? The guy at the music store talked me into it. I don’t know much about classical music.”

Alex starts laughing like this is the most hilarious thing he’s heard all day.

I just fold my arms over my chest and wait.

He walks over to me and puts his arms around me. “Somehow, I’d forgotten you’re not British,” he says.

“Okay, now you’ve really lost me.”

“ _Brief Encounter_. A man and a woman meet in a train station and fall in love, but they’re both married to other people…”

“Cue the romantic angst and thwarted yearning.” I say.

“You _have_ seen it,” he says, dryly.

“And this particular concerto is playing on the soundtrack.”

“Right. It’s widely understood to be almost overwhelmingly romantic, so when I saw it in your collection, I played it.”

“You were hitting on me?” I ask, so very, very shocked.

“I was. I confess it.”

“Well, I’m glad you dropped more hints than that.”

“Me too.” He kisses me and he tastes like mint. He strokes my arms through the thin cotton of my robe. “How do you keep ending up clothed while I’m naked?” he asks.

“Do you want the robe?”

“No. I want you to take it off and lie down with me.”

This sounds like a stellar idea. I take the condoms out of my pocket and place them on the bedside table. I look at Alex, gauging his reaction as I tell him, “They were in my travel kit upstairs.”

“Well, this seems like a better place for them. What were you going to do if we had, ah… wanted them before?” he asks.

“Feel very silly.”

“I imagine you would. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s that you don’t like to be caught out.”

“No,” I concede. “I don’t.”

He starts untying the belt of my robe. “You’re still wearing this damned thing.”

I hold out my arms and let him take it off me. He tosses it… away somewhere.

And we climb into the bed. And we spend the next hour whiling away the hushed time of the night talking and kissing and teasing each other until Alex takes one of the condoms from the table.

“Yes?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes.”

He opens the package and rolls the condom onto his penis. (I make a mental note — retract the foreskin first.)

“Up you go,” he says.

So I straddle him, arrange his cock at my entrance, and sink down over it, feeling it slip, thick and hard, into my body, pressing the air from my lungs on a soft whine.

Alex puts those big, warm hands of his on my hips, slides them over my thighs, my ass, stopping to squeeze now and again.

“Bloody fucking gorgeous,” he mutters. “You’re just… fuck. How much damned water do you drink?”

I giggle until he guides me a little lower, then thrusts, and oh dear lord, I _wail_.

We’re both caught this time, winding each other up. He pulls me down against his chest, ties more knots in my hair, breathes curses and praise against my ears.

And I want, I want, I want, so I squeeze his cock and grind against the root of it until I spool out shivering shimmering threads into the night and, gasping and spent, I lay on him, wrecked, beached, and he works himself into my swimming slick quim, whispering, “beautiful… sweetheart.. so wet… _fuck_ …”

And then, once again, silence as he comes. I watch him, his head tilted back, throat exposed, mouth open… and then it all crumples inward, soft and sweaty and happy.

We sleep in really, really late.

Then we eat a massive breakfast — the promised huevos rancheros, the other half of the avocado, and some reheated Spanish rice I had in the fridge.

Then we fuck again.

Then, late Saturday afternoon, he has to go — errands and chores and whatnot.

“And I should spend some time tomorrow preparing,” he says. We’re at the door, saying goodbye.

I nod. “It’s a pretty heavy episode.”

“Yes, it is.” He bends and kisses me, then turns to go.

Then he turns back. “Mary Sue is this… just last night?”

“Not if you don’t want it to be,” I say. “I mean, I can’t stay — you know that. And I don’t know exactly when I’ll have to go, but I don’t think it will be for a couple of weeks yet. I’d like to spend some of that time with you. If you want.”

“I do.” He bends and kisses me again. “I’ll see you later.”

“I’m not hard to find,” I say.

He drops one last kiss on the top of my head, then goes out to his car and drives away.

I spend the rest of the afternoon combing snarls out of my hair and listening to Rachmaninoff.

 

On Sunday, Elliot calls me.

“Hey,” he says. “I was about to go get some groceries and it occurred to me that you’re probably out of food too, and since Frank’s out of town…”

“… and my license looks a little fishy. And I don’t have a car.”

He laughs, “Yeah, that too. I’ll come by in about twenty minutes?”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be ready.”

I’m just shoving another load of laundry into the washer when Elliot drives up. I meet him outside.

I can tell he’s curious about what’s been going on this week, but there are no freeways between Frank’s and the grocery store, so he just has to stew unless he wants to break his own safe driving rules.

Once we’re at the store though —

“Okay, so have you found _Steve_?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I think he might be connected to a band called Dïs Solutïon,” I say.

“Dissolution?” asks Elliot.

“It’s two words,” I say. “It has superfluous umlauts over the I’s.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Well, anyway, they’re the all-female band that Frank should have seen filming their music video, except the band’s manager asked that the set be closed.”

“And you think the manager is Steve?” asks Elliot.

I shrug. “Or Steve works for the manager, or knows the manager, or knows someone who works for the manager. Hell, he could have just phoned in some kind of threat or…”

“Or did something to make the band seem threatened. You said it was an all-girl band?”

“It wouldn’t take much for him to make one of them believe she had some nightmare of an ‘overzealous’ fan,” I say “Damn it. I’d hoped that he was lurking around so that we could find some way to stop him from trying something else.”

“I love how your plan alway boils down to ‘Find Steve and stop him.’”

“Yeah well, I’m pretty limited in my options. The best I can do is discover how he’s operating and make that impossible for him.”

“Any way to find out what happened?” asks Elliot.

“Maybe. Gwen got chummy with the bass player. She might be able to put me in contact with her.”

“It’s worth a shot,” says Elliot.

 

Gwen’s not on the set on Monday. All of the shooting is being done on location at the mall today, and that only requires Jason, Alex, and an actress named Lilith Tennyson who’s guest starring as another Mak’Tar, plus a bunch of extras. Lilith Tennyson has the distinction of getting to play Sha’Ree, the only female Mak’Tar to appear in the series. You know, because one is roughly half, right?

I don’t stay on the set long. I check the progress on the dampening chamber and chat with a few of the crew. There just isn’t much I can do right now, so I take a cab home. I bake _limpa_ bread and hazelnut cookies to distract myself.

On Tuesday, everyone’s back on the set and shooting the ensemble scenes, which means Fred’s there, so it’s nearly impossible for me to be at either of the sound stages. I check the dampening chamber again and talk to Linda about it, but it’s going off without a hitch. I finally get with Gwen at lunch. Apparently she and the bass player, Delilah Fox, are bosom pals. They’re going out tonight for drinks. Would I like to come along?

“I’d love to!”

No I wouldn’t.

But I’m going anyway.

Gwen and Delilah show up a few minutes after Frank and Letitia get home, so we’re all standing in the open area near the garage when Gwen pulls up.

“Hey, Mary Sue,” says Gwen. “Are you ready?”

She’s looking kind of pointedly at my outfit — you know the one — plaid a-line skirt, girly blouse. She and Delilah are wearing mini-skirts and satin tops.

Well, shit.

“Oh wow,” I say. “You guys look great. I didn’t bring anything for partying on this trip though.”

“Oh honey,” says Letitia. “I’ll let you borrow a dress, and no paying for all of my dry-cleaning this time, you hear?”

A few days with her family and Letitia’s southern starts showing, apparently.

So I let Letitia put me into a very short shirt-dress with a wide patent leather belt. It’s exactly the type of outfit I used to avoid like the plague. I look like an overstuffed pillow that’s been cinched in the middle. I put on (ugh) nylons and my black dress flats, and we head off into the night — three single gals looking for adventure — or, you know, booze.

We end up at a fern bar downtown. It’s pretty quiet despite the Wednesday night drink specials. We drink lemon drops and talk about music. Pretty soon I’m lubricated enough to feel mellow and just sort of quietly and absentmindedly sing along with the jukebox whenever there’s a lull in the conversation. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Gwen joins me. Delilah keeps the jukebox supplied with quarters. She has wide-ranging tastes — everything from outlaw country to new wave.

When the talk comes around to Delilah’s band, I mention that Gwen had told me that the set had been closed for the shoot.

“Yeah, that was the weirdest thing,” says Delilah. “Our manager got a call from one of the record company execs saying that someone was selling VHS tapes of bootlegged video shoots — told him he should keep the set closed.”

“Does that happen?” asks Gwen.

Thank you, Gwen.

“Not that I know of,” says Delilah. “Who wants to watch a converted Super 8 film of a bunch of musicians lip-syncing and pretending to play their instruments? And even if they did, how does that affect us? It’s not like they’re undermining our brisk sales in behind-the-scenes videos. But Roger got all uptight about it — said we had to keep everybody out. I was pissed. I’d told my niece she could come watch us make a music video, but no.”

“That sucks,” I commiserate.

“Yeah it does,” agrees Delilah. “I told Roger it was bullshit. He could just as easily ban hand-held cameras, but he’s paranoid. Last month he was convinced that there’s a secret leftist plot to intimidate conservatives by helping these mentally unstable dudes get guns to shoot at Reagan and the pope.

“You’re kidding,” says Gwen.

“I wish I was. Supposedly, they got the idea when that Chapman guy shot Lennon. The whole scheme is that conservatives will decide that crazy pinkos will shoot at them whenever they leave the house.”

“Riiight,” I say. “And then what?”

“I have no idea,” says Delilah. “World domination, probably. I’m going to go start the jukebox again. I’m determined to find a song you don’t know the lyrics to.”

After the fern bar, Gwen and Delilah want to go dancing, but I beg off. I point out that Gwen may have the day off tomorrow, but I don’t. So they wait with me until my cab comes before heading out to dance not-at-all-homoerotically at some club.

It’s still way past my bedtime by the time I wash the smell of cigarettes out of my hair and climb into bed.

 

Frank wants to get to the studio earlier than usual, because of course he does. He’s also chatty on the drive.

“So, you’ve got quite the social life this time around,” he says.

“I guess I do,” I reply. “Last time the sabotage was just so constant. This time, whatever my guy has in mind, it doesn’t look like he’s going to try it until next week when you’re filming ‘Wrinkle.’ Besides, last night was about information gathering. I wanted to find out why Dïs Solutïon’s manager decided to close the set. Turns out someone told him that there was a problem with unauthorized filming.”

“Someone.”

“Yeah, ‘someone.’”

“So last night was you chasing a lead,” says Frank, “but what was the overnight guest this weekend?”

Oh.

Oh fuck. I probably shouldn’t have done that. It’s not my house.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have let someone stay here while you were gone. Sometimes I just do really bone-headed things. I —”

“Calm down, Mary Sue. You’re a grown woman who can have guests if she wants. Which is exactly what I told my ‘concerned’ neighbor when he came over last evening to tell me that there was a blue Bonneville in the driveway all night on Friday.”

I really hate it when someone thinks it’s their job to be scandalized by my sex life. I don’t know why I thought that people minded their own business here.

Frank goes on — “Just keep in mind that Alex’s private life doesn’t stay very private, despite his best efforts. I don’t know if that’s something you need to worry about in your, ah, line of work.”

“I honestly don’t know. But it probably wouldn’t be a good thing to get my picture in some tabloid,” I say, still mentally berating myself for forgetting that other people exist and letting my libido overrule my sense.

We drive in silence for awhile until we’re close to the studio. Then Frank says, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re good for him. A rebound fling is probably just what the doctor ordered, you know?”

I don’t necessarily disagree with him, I’m just not happy with slapping the label “rebound fling” on whatever’s going on with me and Alex. Then again, I’m not all that happy with trying to stuff any of my relationships into some filing system that makes more sense to society at large than it does to me. So maybe “rebound fling” is what’s going on here. Maybe that’s how other people see it.

I’m quiet for too long.

“I’m sorry,” says Frank. “I didn’t mean to imply… Like I said, you’re a grown-up and so’s Alex. And I’ll just stick my nose right back out of it.”

I shake my head. “You’re fine, Frank. I don’t blame you for being concerned about one of your cast. I’m leaving soon, and Alex knows that, even if he doesn’t know the truth about why. Whatever kind of… fling this is, we both know it’s finite.”

At the studio, I (You guessed it!) check the damn chompers again. Jason’s there along with Damian Jackson, one of the stunt guys. He died in episode 38, “The Planet of Dr. Garbanian,” so he only does rubber head aliens now. They’re doing a walk-through to get an idea of how the scene will play out.

Linda and Jens Maller (Yeah, that Jens Maller. He was the assistant director for the last season of _Galaxy Quest_. Everybody’s gotta start somewhere.) are arguing about the sequence that the chompers should move in.

“It’s more tense if Taggart has enough time to reach out for the dropped nebulizer before the chomper destroys it.”

“Mary Sue,” says Linda, for once genuinely thrilled to see me. “Tell Jens what the sequence is.”

“2…2…4…2. 2…2…4…2. 2…3…8…2,” I say.

“They’re manually operated, though. We can change the sequence,” says Jens.

“No we can’t,” I say. “That’s the sequence that has been calculated to counteract the specific vibration of the plasma armor when it’s been hit by a resonance cannon.”

“You say that like you’re dead fucking serious.”

That’s because I’m dead fucking serious, _Jens_. “The fans know the frequency at which the plasma armor vibrates. They’ll figure it out if you bullshit them. That’s why Frank brought me back for this project,” I say. There really are fans like that. Hell, in my own time I’m dating one of them.

Linda is barely able to conceal her glee. For someone who chafed (to put it politely) for months under my insistence on protecting the suspension of disbelief of a faceless crowd of nerds, she sure is enjoying watching it drive Jens around the bend.

He stands there for a minute with his hands on his hips, glaring at me, then the set, then me, before deciding to get in my personal space, using his greater height to try and intimidate me. I’ve got news for him, most of the human race is taller than me. I’m used to it now.

Plus I have a very spotty sense of self-preservation.

“This is a space opera, not fucking _Cosmos_ ,” he says.

“A space opera with the same fucking audience as _Cosmos_. Perhaps you haven’t worked on a show that appeals to an intellectual audience before. You can’t expect to just distract them with an explosion and some cleavage.”

At this point, Jason and Damian have come to stand next to me, and Jens backs off.

“Sorry,” he says. “I get a little passionate sometimes.”

Riiight.

“Let’s run it one more time,” says Jason, “before I have to go be dramatic with Alex.”

And everyone goes back to work.

I head over to makeup.

Alex, unsurprisingly, is there, getting the edge of his prosthetic blended by Dorothy.

“Mary Sue,” he says, smiling a little.

“Alex,” I say, nodding at him.

Dorothy looks up at me and also smiles. “Hey, Mary Sue. I’d heard you were back.”

“Hey Dorothy,” I return. “Yeah, for a little while. I’m working on a set for next week’s filming.”

“Oh, that chompers thing?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Is Jason still over there?” she asks, “He’s due here in about five minutes.” She starts powdering Alex.

“They said they were going to do one more walk-through,” I tell her.

She rolls her eyes. “So, three more walk-throughs. Jens thinks he’s the next Fellini.” She finishes brushing the excess powder off Alex’s nose. “At least _you_ never give me trouble,” she tells him.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says.

“Hah!” She sets aside her brush and pulls the paper collar out of Alex’s t-shirt. “Well, I’ve got time to go get a Tab from the machine, anyway. On the off-chance that Nesmith shows up before I get back, tell him to sit tight.”

“Will do,” I say to her back.

Alex reaches out and takes my hand. “Hello there,” he says.

“Hello,” I say, smiling at him. “How’s your week going?”

“Difficult, but satisfying,” he says. “Yours?”

“The mass resonance dampening chamber looks great. The new assistant director isn’t too happy with me. He threw a minor snit.”

“Jens? I’ve always found him to be very reasonable.”

“Sometimes, dudes behave differently with women than they do with other dudes,” I point out, watching his face to see how this news flash might settle in.

He seems a bit skeptical, actually.

“However,” I plow on before I get caught up in what would no doubt be a disappointing discussion about Jens Maller’s character, “that’s not what I came here to tell you. I wanted to let you know that Frank knows we spent the night together on Friday. He’s not upset or anything, but a neighbor saw your car — multiple times apparently — and decided to inform him that shenanigans happened while he was out of town.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“Really? Which position, exactly, are you apologizing for?”

He doesn’t take the bait.

“My actions left you vulnerable to small-minded…”

“Busybodies?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“ _Our_ actions were observed by someone whose own bitterness leaves them no pleasure as satisfying to them as punishing others. Those people are everywhere. I haven’t let them stop me from enjoying what sweetness I happen to get, and I’m not about to start now.”

Alex snorts. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

I give him a very dry and careful-not-to-smear-his-makeup peck on his lips.

“Break a leg,” I say.

We hear Jason outside, whistling as he gets closer. Alex squeezes my hand and lets go.

So I’m sitting a respectable distance from Alex by the time Jason walks in.

“Hey guys, where’s Dorothy?” he asks.

“On a quest for diet soft drinks,” I answer. “She’ll be right back. And now that I’ve relayed the message, I’m off on a quest to find Frank.”

“I saw him heading toward the New Tev’Mek set,” says Jason.

And, sure enough, that’s where I find Frank.

“How’re the chompers?” he asks me.

“Fine,” I say. “Perfect.”

“I’m sorry,” says Frank.

I sigh and plop down in one of the folding director’s chairs.

“Maller gave me shit about the sequence,” I say. “I wanted you to know in case he decides that he can just change it when Mommy’s not around to tell him no and Daddy’s not wise to his tricks.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. You gonna stay and watch for a change?” Frank gestures towards the interior of Sha’ree’s dwelling.

“May I?” I ask.

“Of course. Pearson’s gonna want his chair back, though.” Lance Pearson is the director for this episode.

“I’ll go find someplace to be out of the way.”

I find a quiet corner to watch from. It’s weird, to say the least. I’ve seen this episode dozens, maybe hundreds of times — but watching it being filmed, hearing those lines that I know by heart said for the first time? It’s thrilling. For a few hours, I just relax and fangirl a bit.

Alex and Jason film a couple of scenes together, then Lilith shows up and they do the scenes with the three of the them. I’m struck by how gorgeous her character design is in person. There’s a story in Letitia’s memoir that Dorothy had originally designed her to have hair, but Frank and Lilith had insisted that the character be bald, like her male counterparts. The producers were worried that she wouldn’t seem feminine enough, but Lilith’s face is so pretty, with her big eyes and full lips, that the producers were won over.

For this episode, they also had to create some kind of typical feminine Mak’Tar attire. A couple of Mak’Tar men had already made an appearance in the season two episode “Lazarus, Lazarus.” Their costumes had been based on the generic male Asian costume — from the Indian _sherwani_ to the Vietnamese _ao dai_ , guys all over Asia wear (or used to wear) a pretty similar outfit. The _sennes_ is basically a long jacket, split up the sides, and tied shut under the right arm, over a pair of pants, plus an undershirt that also wraps criss-cross in front. The other Mak’Tar asks Dr. Lazarus why he doesn’t wear the _sennes_ , but it’s never said whether that means the whole outfit, or just the jacket.

Lilith is wearing something similar, but her pants are softer and fuller, with tight cuffs at her ankles. Alex stays in uniform in this episode, but he gets his own version of the outfit for the episode, “Loner on a Lonely Planet.” His version has samurai pants because that’s what you wear when you’re a Grabtharian warrior, I guess. It probably had far more to do with making Lazarus look distinctive and the costume department having a wide selection of _hakama_ than anything else. They tied them on the sides, though, so it’s completely different. Also, you know, a front tie would be lumpy under the jacket which was made of silk so that it would move in a really cool way during the fight scenes.

Anyway, Sha’ree’s a fan favorite, despite only being in this one episode. There’s absolute tons of fic about her, and there’s always at least one person doing a cosplay of her at every con. Of course, part of it is that there are many ways to interpret her relationship with Lazarus — old friends, siblings, lovers who chose other lives. All we know for sure is that they were once very close and that Sha’ree offers Lazarus a place in her home when it appears that he will be needing a haven to “nest.”

Right now they’re doing the scene where Lazarus tells Sha’ree that he’s not pregnant after all, and that he plans on returning to the _Protector_ with Taggart. She is visibly disappointed by this news. He realizes how much she had wanted him to stay, that she hadn’t gone to the trouble of setting aside a place for him in her home merely out of kindness or obligation, but because she genuinely cares for him and has missed him.

“Sha’ree,” he says. “I have taken advantage of your affection —”

She interrupts him. “Everything I have offered you was offered freely. And I will offer you the same when you choose to carry your mother’s child.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I am… humbled by your kindness.”

She shakes her head, a little sadly. “Our generation — we have only ourselves to rely on. We are all siblings to one another. I will welcome you as Ipthar welcomed wandering Grabthar when you are ready to come home.”

Lazarus looks away from her, unwilling or unable to say that the _Protector_ is his home, and that it tears his heart to know that he will have to leave it someday.

And that’s where the scene ends.

I’m sitting in my corner, silently crying my eyes out.

Damn, but they’re good, both of them.

 

At the end of the day, I run into Alex as I’m on my way to Frank’s office. It hasn’t been a particularly long day, but Alex looks tired. I hadn’t noticed it what with the makeup he was wearing earlier.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Do I look that bad?”

“Bad? No. A little rough maybe, but not bad.”

He smiles. “It’s sweet of you to spare my feelings.”

“That’s me,” I say. “Chock full of the milk of human kindness.”

“Would you come home with me tonight?” he asks. “We could get surprisingly decent takeaway from the place up the street from where I live and…” he trails off, looking embarrassed.

“And?”

“And sleep, actually. I’m really just seeking company.”

“A sleepover.”

“A sleepover?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You know, when you have someone over and eat Chinese food or pizza and talk about stuff.”

“I thought there was hair-braiding and Truth-or-Dare involved as well,” he says.

“Like sleep, those are optional activities, but since you’ve already expressed an interest in sleep, I suggest we forgo them. Nights are shorter than you think.”

“Alright,” he says, grinning at me. “Might I interest you in a sleepover this evening?”

“Promise not to freeze my underwear?”

“Upon my honour as a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Let me just go tell Frank that I’ll be staying somewhere else tonight.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

Alex’s house is small and furnished in a style reminiscent of my first apartment, if I’d had access to nicer thrift stores and somehow hated art. However, it’s clean and he has a working teakettle, so it’s got that going for it.

He looks around the room as we enter it. I suspect he hasn’t noticed anything here since he moved in. He confirms it. “I’m afraid the décor hasn’t been my first priority,” he says.

I’m biting my lips, trying not to laugh.

“Or my 46th priority, for that matter.”

I snort.

“And it might be a bit small…”

We both laugh.

“It’s gigantic compared to my apartment,” I say.

“New York apartments being what they are,” he says.

Um, right.

“I don’t need much space,” I say. “My books are probably the bulkiest thing I own.”

“I can commiserate. I bought this house mainly for the bookcases.” The back wall of his living room is taken up with built-in shelving. There’s another unit that creates a bench under the picture window.

We unpack the takeout in his kitchen. There’s an itty-bitty table in here and two chairs. Alex has to pull the table closer to the cupboards in order to make enough room for one of us to sit on the second chair. I take that one, since it’s abundantly clear which one is his.

There are divots in the flooring where the table usually rests.

Alex digs a couple pairs of chopsticks out of a drawer and grabs two plates from the drainer.

“I have…” He looks in the refrigerator. “…beer… or tea.”

“Either is fine with me, so whatever you’re having.”

He pulls two short, fat bottles from the fridge. Sierra Nevada ales tend to be a little hoppy for my tastes, but I figure I can’t be unbearably precious about beer until 1987 at the earliest.

“So you’re a fan of E.M. Forster,” I say.

“No, I keep his books on an eye-level shelf to impress guests.”

“Does it work?”

“Nearly everyone who walks in the door remarks on them.”

So we talk about _A Passage to India_ and _A Room With a View_ and _Maurice_ , which are the three novels we’ve both read, and eat Sichuan food and drink porter. I think I mostly manage to keep the novels separated from the movies that don’t exist yet.

I’m sort of amused that we can keep this up — finding things to talk about when we’re both reluctant to talk about our lives. I wonder what will happen when we run out of shared literature.

Then I remember that it won’t come to that.

This is a short-term affair, an “idyll” if you want to be romantic about it.

A fling.

“Thank you for this,” says Alex, as we’re snuggling into his bed in t-shirts and underwear, teeth brushed, my hair in a braid. His arm is under my pillow. My back is pressed to his front. “I just… sometimes it’s difficult to leave work behind when I’m by myself.”

And he’s mostly by himself, isn’t he? I want to ask him about Amber Joie. I want to tell him that this… fling… or whatever — it means something to me. But honestly? I don’t even know if that’s something he wants to hear.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that he wants something — assurance or connection or something.

Before I can get myself all in a panic at not knowing what to say, I wriggle around to face him. I kiss him — chastely, but a with firm and lingering pressure of my mouth against his.

“Alex, I hope, whatever else I might be to you, that I’m your friend.”

He smiles, kisses me, and touches his forehead to mine. I hear him breathe out.

I wriggle back around and close my eyes, pulling the soft, satin banded blanket closer.

A minute later, I feel his lips brush the side of my neck. And I hear his voice, rumbling and low — “Goodnight, sweet friend.”

It’s a little quaint, but it makes me smile anyway.

 

The rest of the week goes smoothly, not that I was expecting anything different. The chompers are good to go, everything’s on schedule, and I’m firmly convinced that whatever Gath’gor has planned, he’s going to try it next week.

On Friday, Alex takes me to an Indian restaurant that’s somewhat intimidating on the outside, but outrageously charming inside. We eat _dosa_ stuffed with curry and talk about _Frankenstein_ and the recent release of Anaïs Nin’s erotica.

“I’d never encountered ‘belly’ as a euphemism for ‘quim,’” I say.

“I’ve never encountered someone who uses the word ‘quim,’” says Alex.

I shrug. “I just like it.”

“And ‘cunt?’ I should probably have asked you before now.”

“It very much depends on context and the way it’s said.” I hesitate. I have decided opinions about this word, but those opinions are revealing of some of my deeper oddnesses. I decide to just say it. “It’s an old word, ‘cunt.’ Ancient. Maybe even as old as language. You can hear it in ‘kin’ — people from the same cunt, ‘country’ — the land of your kin, ‘cuna’ — Spanish for cradle, ‘count’ — the marking of days until the next menstrual flow or the next baby or the next full moon. It’s both sacred and mundane. It should be used with respect, maybe even a little awe. I hate that it’s become an insult, a commonplace one where you’re from and a term of utmost disgust where I come from. The first is reductive, and the second is a… vile attempt to use feminine power against women.”

He’s looking at me like I’ve just chosen to give my response in interpretive dance.

“I like the way you say it,” I add. “It’s good — earthy and reverent.”

I decide to shut up now.

He just smiles at me — soft and fond. “The things you say,” he says.

Back at the guest house, we smoke a little and proceed to get naked and roll around on the bed. He has a beautiful mouth, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to get tired of kissing him, so we trade kisses for who-knows-how-long until we’re trading kisses across each others bodies — fingers, nipples, bellies, thighs — and bringing each other off with our mouths. Then we fall asleep tangled together.

When I wake up, the alarm clock reads 3:37. Alex appears in the doorway again while I’m brushing my teeth, so I hand him his toothbrush, kiss his freckle-dusted shoulder, and go crawl back into bed.

Alex joins me in the bed and curls his body around mine, his front to my back, his arm under my pillow — just like Wednesday night except this time he doesn’t stop at one soft kiss on my neck, and somehow (who knows how these things happen?) his cock is in my quim and his fingers are stroking and squeezing on either side of my clit, and he’s whisper-growling obscene endearments against my shoulder. I come sucking the fingers of his other hand, and he follows me soon after.

We sleep late. Again.

I make eggs and bacon and toast from the last of a loaf of rye bread I baked on Thursday.

After breakfast, as I’m working the knots out my hair, Alex asks me how much of L.A. I’ve seen.

“Well, there’s the studio, Frank’s place, Elliot’s place, and your place,” I say.

“I’ve seen those places,” he says. “There are much better places. Let’s go look at one.”

“You mean get up and move around?”

“Yes, exactly. Get a little fresh… smog.”

“What did you have in mind?” I ask.

So we spend the day wandering the botanical gardens that served as the grounds of the Palace of Delight in “The Adonis Factor.” Then we eat very good chicken saltimbocca at some out-of-the-way restaurant with red and white checked tablecloths and candles in squatty little amber hurricanes. I’m beginning to detect a bit of a pattern in Alex’s eating habits.

I wonder if those sad cans of soup actually exist.

We’re both hot and sticky and tired by the time we get back. I propose a shower.

“There’s plenty of room,” I say. “I have it on good authority that it’s at least a three-lesbian shower.”

Before half an hour’s up I have absolute proof that there’s plenty of room to go down on a lady in that shower.

We soap each other up and wash each others’ hair.

We stand under the spray and kiss.

I crowd Alex up against the tile wall and curl one fist into his hair and the other around his cock. I stroke it, my mouth on his nipple, while he mutters, “Fuck,” and “Jesus,” and “Mary Sue,” until he comes.

He washes my belly again for me.

We actually manage to brush our teeth before bed for a change.

So when I wake up at 3:29, all I need to do is piss and go back to bed. When I come back, Alex is wide awake anyway.

“I’m sorry I keep waking you,” I say.

“Yes, it’s clearly a distressing situation for me,” he replies as he pulls me on top of his chest and kisses me. “I’m extraordinarily put out,” as his hand skims down my back and squeezes my ass. “How dare you.”

“Mmm, I’m terrible,” I admit.

He just looks at me, a little smile on those very, very, oh-so-attractive lips. And my heart forgets how to do its job for a second. Without that thin wall of disdain, he’s warm and gentle and funny. I think of how his relationship with Amber didn’t work out, and I can’t help but wish that the only thing dividing us was a continent.

I would, if I could, I would love him very much, I think.

I get comfortable — plaster myself up against him, tangle my legs between his — and kiss him.

He pulls back a little and says, “You’re not so terrible.” I mentally flail around for a second trying to pick up the thread of the conversation again. “I’m usually awake at this hour. I read or just lie there and contemplate the vagaries of the universe until I fall back asleep. This is much nicer.”

“That’s it?” I ask. “Just reading or woolgathering?”

“Well…”

I stroke his hip, letting my wrist get close enough to his cock to feel the heat of it. “Well, maybe a wank now and again?”

“Maybe.” He’s still smiling and watching my face.

“Show me?”

He blushes. “There’s not much to see. I’m rather basic in my masturbatory habits, I’m afraid.”

“There’s nothing wrong with basic,” I say. I really just want to see his powerful, solid hands around his thick cock. I happen to be pretty into the basics, myself.

“I mean, most of it happens in my head,” he says.

Oh, that is so much better.

“You could tell me what you fantasize about,” I say, hopeful.

“I… I’d rather not,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Am I supposed to wheedle?” I ask.

“No, I’m just surprised that you don’t,” he says.

I swallow my panic, try to keep my voice light.

“Sometimes, I make suggestions that sound more like demands. Have I…?”

“No. No, nothing like that.” He eases my head down until it’s resting against his chest. He strokes my hair. “You’ve been a model lover, Mary Sue. Truly. If I expected… intrusiveness, it really didn’t have anything to do with your behavior. Do you know what I mean?”

Boy, do I.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. We never really bring just ourselves to bed.”

We lay there like that, still touching, still pressed together over the length of our bodies, my head still on his chest, his fingers still combing my hair for a long time. I’ve almost fallen asleep when he starts to speak.

“Once I’ve gathered sufficient wool of an erotic nature, I spin out a fantasy. I like to let the thread play out awhile. I prefer to… hunger a bit. I enjoy the sensation of getting hard without touching myself.”

I know he must feel my breath catch and accelerate. I can see the pricking of the hair surrounding his nipple, the little bud tightening.

“And then I start like this.” I look down his body and watch as he cups his balls, just holding them loosely in one big hand. I swallow. “I… do this until I’m… until there’s some fluid.”

His voice is low and rough, nearly leonine.

A rolling, broken, intimate sound. A witching hour sound.

I touch a finger to the clear bead welling from the slit on the head of his cock. His hand moves to the shaft and he pulls back his foreskin.

“I get it — the head — wet,” he says. I slip my finger through the fluid, painting it over the head of his cock.

“Then I stroke myself — like this.” He strokes up, letting his foreskin envelop the plush tip of his prick. I put my hand where his was, cradling his sac. With the hand that’s still tangled in my hair, he pulls my face closer to his and kisses me wet and hot and wanton. Wanting. Messy.

“Sweet, buggering _fuck_ ,” says Alex. He stops stroking his cock and brings his hand up to my face. I suck the smear of liquid from his thumb.

He groans and laughs at the same time, if that’s possible. He kisses me again.

Then, my face still cupped in his hands, he says, “How do you do it?”

“Do it?” I ask. Is this a rhetorical question?

“How do you touch yourself? How do you bring yourself to orgasm?”

Oh, that. “I have a vibrator,” I say.

“Of course you do. Where is it?”

“Upstairs, in the bathroom.”

“Why do you keep everything associated with sex in your upstairs loo?”

I shrug. I mean, I can hardly tell him that I would feel really terrible if I got yanked back to 1999 and left some poor employee of Frank’s housekeeping service to throw out my old vibrator, so I keep it in my knapsack.

I think about it for a second. “Although sometimes… I have this little rocking chair with no arms, and it sits where the sun in the morning comes through my window. Sometimes I’ll sit in it, naked, with my legs wide, and the sunlight warm on my breasts and my thighs and my quim and touch myself.”

“With your hand or with a toy?” asks Alex. He’s lying beside me with his head propped up in his hand, his erection pressed into my hip.

“Either. I usually start with my hands.” I put my hands between my legs and spread myself wide as if I’m exposing my clit to a sunbeam. “I don’t rub, just flex my hips a little, letting the pleasure build in waves.”

I can’t hold a conversation this way, so I stop talking and just watch Alex as I continue moving. We’re both breathing hard, and I want to switch to a more direct pressure, but I don’t. I just let the moment stretch out with Alex hard against me while I whimper as if I’m not the one doing this to myself.

It’s Alex who finally gives in though. “Mary Sue,” he says, low and thick, before he crouches next to me and places his tongue, soft and wet and warm as sunlight, directly on my button and just holds it there while I rub against it.

Once, twice, three times and I’m flying apart, crying out, coming against his mouth for the second time that night.

I grab his hair and pull him off, too sensitive all of a sudden to bear even the meager pressure he’s applying. He lays his head on my stomach and holds me while random parts of my body quiver through the aftershocks.

After I’ve calmed a bit, he kisses my belly, then kneels up and takes each of my nipples into his mouth in turns. He kisses me and, faintly, I taste myself on his tongue.

“I want to fuck you,” he says.

“Kismet,” I say. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Good.” He reaches into the bedside drawer, grabs another condom, and rolls it on. He’s still kneeling in the approximate middle of the bed. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand.

I take it.

He pulls me up, brings my palm to his lips, and slips his other arm around my ribcage as if we’re going to dance. I straddle his lap and steady his cock with my hand. We watch each others’ faces as I put my arms around his neck and sink down over him.

“God, Mary Sue,” he whispers. He pulls me tight against himself and presses his face to my neck. I can hear his rough breath under my ear. I can feel the tension in his shoulders, though whether it stems from the eroticism of the moment or the intimacy, I have no idea. I only know that it is intensely both of those things.

We stay like that for a long moment, neither of us moving. He feels good inside me — thick and solid. I must feel good surrounding him because he whispers, “Sweet little cunt, sweet and wet and snug and warm.”

I roll my hips forward, and squeeze his cock.

“Oh bloody hell, are you trying to kill me?” he asks.

“Just a little.”

He laughs until I do it again.

“Dear fucking — more of that, please.”

Well, when he asks so sweetly…

And when it feels so good…

…how can I say no?

He leans back a little in order to penetrate deeper. His back is bowed, his forehead resting against my shoulder. His hands are on my hips, gripping my flesh and urging my movements.

“Are you watching us?” I ask.

“Yes.” He thrusts into me as I rock forward. “Yes, I’m watching. Oh, god —”

I’d love to keep him talking. It’s more than a little thrilling to make him attempt coherent sentences when he’s lost to sensation, but I’m getting a bit lost myself.

Held by him. Filled by him. Surrounded by his arms and the sound of his treacle-thick voice. Warm as a sunbeam, hard as a stone. Waves, heavy and percussive, swell up from my wet-snug-warm cunt. And I hold the edge, riding it for as long as I can.

“Alex.” He looks up at me and I kiss him as I come, everything rushing back down and around him.

“Yes, beautiful. Yes, come for me.” And I do. Again.

“Jesus, Mary Sue, I want — May I?” He nips my shoulder just before the spot where it slopes toward the joint of my arm. “I want to mark you.”

“Yes,” I say. “Do it.”

And he does. He takes my skin in his mouth, between his teeth and sucks until he comes, thrusting upward so hard that I’m lifted part-way off the bed.

 

We sleep in late the next morning.

But not so late that we’re not up and dressed (and the knots combed out of my hair) by the time that Frank comes over to tell us that the strike has ended.

“Elliot and Ros are coming over for lunch,” he says. “I thought I’d grill some tuna steaks.”

“I can make a salad to go with it,” I say.

“Thanks, kiddo. You’re a peach.”

I check the refrigerator. I haven’t been shopping since I went with Elliot last weekend, but there’s still a fair amount of produce in there. I had planned to make _Salade Ni_ _çoise_ at some point in time this last week but had never gotten around to it. The ingredients are still good though.

I pull out a sackful of broad beans. (I know it’s supposed to be string beans, but I hate string beans with every fiber of my being, and I was shocked to see fresh broad beans in the market at this time of year, so I bought them instead.)

“May I help?” asks Alex.

I hand him a paring knife.

“You know you may.”

Alex puts a Billie Holiday album on the stereo and we open the big French doors that take up most of the back wall of the kitchen. There’s a small table and four of those wire chairs that you see copies of everywhere, designed by someone whose name my art history professor would be chagrined to know had not entered my long-term memory.

Anyway, we sit in those chairs and shell broad beans while listening to “Body and Soul.”

Elliot shows up when we’re about halfway through. He’s not surprised to see Alex, so I assume Frank mentioned he’d be here.

“Picturesque,” he says. “All that’s missing are corncob pipes and tall glasses of lemonade.”

“Your knowledge of the pleasures of rural life is astounding,” I say, chucking an empty bean pod at him.

Elliot catches the pod and tosses it into the bowl with the rest. He pulls out one of the wonders of mid-century design and sits in it.

“Hey, Alex.”

“Elliot.”

“So,” says Elliot, “you two are uhm…”

I glance at Alex, he’s tense, but I have no idea why.

My brain cycles through the possibilities. He is protective of his privacy. He’s protective of my privacy. He’s embarrassed. He thinks I’m embarrassed. A combination of some or all of those things.

“Keeping company,” I finish for Elliot.

“Yeah, okay.” Elliot has the good grace to look contrite over having asked.

Rosalin descends upon us like the angel of welcome distractions to spread the balm of changed subjects over the abrasion of awkward conversations.

“Hey, guys. Hey, Mary Sue. I didn’t know you were back. Good to see you.” I’ve never seen Rosalin outside of work. She’s wearing jeans and a white peasant blouse with flowers embroidered on the yoke. Her hair is down and slightly damp, like she just took a shower. It’s a big departure from her usual businessy slacks, button-down and severe up-do.

We greet her, and she drops a file folder on the table as she takes the last chair.

“Where’s Frank?” she asks.

“He’s in the main house,” I say. “Nobody seems to be able to get past this point with its compelling floor show of bean-shelling.”

Rosalin stands back up. “I’ll go tell him that Elliot and I are here.” She taps the folder and looks at Elliot. “Read this.”

He picks it up and opens it. “What is it?”

“Before the break, Frank mentioned that he was having trouble getting a script for this season to fit. I told him I’d take a look at it. That’s what I came up with.”

Elliot nods and starts reading.

We’ve finished shelling the beans and I take them inside to blanch them. Alex follows me.

“Keeping company?” he asks.

I shrug. “It’s as good a description as any, I guess. If I’d expected it to come up, I might have thought of something better.”

“It’s hard to describe to others something we haven’t discussed ourselves.”

I set the pot I’ve been filling on the stove and turn the burner to high.

“Do you want to?” I ask, a little taken aback. I’ve been as open and honest with him as I can be.

He’s leaning with his back to the sink, hands on either side of his hips.

“I’ve known from the outset that you were only offering… your company… for a short amount of time. I just want you to know that if you should find that your… circumstances change, I would be interested in pursuing…”

It had not occurred to me that Alex would consider me an appropriate long-term partner, so to speak.

I really thought I was the only one who wanted more.

I lay my hand on his.

“Alex, I wish I could. You’re not the only one who feels that way, but I can’t. I really can’t.”

He nods. Then he bends and kisses me.

“Then I’ll be content with what I can have,” he says, and he smiles at me, but I can see the sadness nonetheless.

We go back to making the salad.

Letitia wanders in just as we’re finishing up.

“What’s up?” I ask her.

“Oh, they’re reading a scene Rosalin brought over. She wrote it for “A Wrinkle In Space,” but Frank’s already committed to your crazy hallway. I guess it’s pretty good though. They’re talking about adding it to another episode.”

“Which one?” I ask. It must be the Laredo air-duct crawl that I remember, but that Fred didn’t.

“I don’t know,” says Letitia. “Zara’s in it, so I had to be sent out of the room — or off the deck, as the case may be.”

Zara Laredo is Letitia’s role in _Galaxy Quest_. Writers often don’t want the actors knowing what their characters will be doing too far ahead of time.

I think I’d better go check on the writers.

They’ve moved to the big dining deck off the kitchen of the main house. Frank has his grill out there and he’s prepping it while talking to Elliot and Ros.

“Ros, nobody’s denying that it’s a great scene,” says Frank, “but we’ve already built the chompers set. We can’t throw that money down the drain. We can do your scene in another episode.”

I take a seat and pick up the script, skimming through it even though I pretty much know it by heart. I’m a little concerned that Fred didn’t remember this scene as a possible alternative. I wonder what happened to it in the original timeline? Did it even exist? Of course, if they planned to use it later, they wouldn’t have told the cast. They might have done that and then later never came.

That would be a shame. This scene inspired the only piece I ever did that featured Taggart as a main character.

However, I’m not here to fix my own life.

I’m still curious though.

“This is really good stuff, Rosalin,” I say. “Where’d you get the idea?”

“From the last time they sent Tawny through the crawlway. The excuse is we send her because it needs to be someone small, which is bullshit. The only one of them that’s taller than Gwen is Alex. But we can’t come right out and say that it needs to be someone with boobs. Anyway, I’m watching Gwen crawl around again, and I just thought, we’d get way more dramatic tension if we sent Laredo.”

“True,” I say. So, Gath’gor didn’t somehow suggest the idea to Ros. Not that I’m surprised. That would be too… smart and creative — attributes which I have not noticed Gath’gor possessing. Actually, all he’d have to do is get her working on something. She’d show up with a scene that fixed the run-time problem. A two-pronged attack — make sure Frank didn’t see the video shoot so he wouldn’t fix the hole in the script with the chompers, then have Ros show up with the solution.

“And you said Frank asked you to work on it?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t do that,” says Frank. “I wouldn’t ask you to work on something while you were on strike.”

“This was before,” says Rosalin. “Remember? You called me just before the break and said that ‘Wrinkle’ was running short.”

“I couldn’t have. I didn’t even know it was running short until we were in preproduction.”

Elliot and I exchange a look. This wouldn’t be the first time that Gath’gor impersonated Frank.

“You sure, Frank?” asks Elliot, giving Frank the same meaningful look he just gave me. “I could’ve sworn you mentioned it to me too.”

“Maybe,” says Frank, starting to catch on. “Come to think of it, I strongly suspected it would run short. I just didn’t know for certain until later.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway,” says Ros. “You’ve got the resonance mass whatever chamber, and you don’t need this.” She waves her hand at the folder I’m still holding.

“Hold on to it, Ros,” says Frank. “We might be able to use it later. It really is good.”

“I’ll go stick it on your desk then,” she says. I hand her the folder and she heads into the house with it.

As soon as she’s gone, Frank turns to me. “What do you think, Mary Sue?”

“I think my guy’s literally phoning it in. First Dïs Solutïon’s manager, now Rosalin.”

“He can’t disguise his appearance anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have some way to disguise his voice,” says Elliot.

“Exactly,” I say.

“And you’re still here, so the fat lady still has an aria,” says Frank.

“Looks that way,” I say.

 

Alex has some dinner thing he needs to attend, so I just kick around the guest house, doing laundry and typing up notes on the Palm. Then I take a long shower, braid up my hair and sleep through the night for a change.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. About not sleeping through the last couple of nights.

Anyway, we get to the studio bright and early. Frank and I are both on edge about the filming today. If it were going to go smoothly, I’d already be gone. But the set looks fine.

Then Jason and the crew do a walk-through. The sequence of the chompers movement has been changed. Not surprisingly, it now matches Jens Maller’s “vision.”

“That’s not the correct sequence,” I say.

“Look, I know that it messes up the science somehow, but nobody’s going to notice, and the scene has more impact this way,” says the director. I forget his name. There’s a director named Dougan and one named Dougall, and I get them mixed up.

“Put it back the way it belongs,” says Frank.

The director’s not happy, but they walk it through with the correct sequence a few times before sending Jason off to change and get his makeup done.

Frank looks at me. “You’re still here,” he says.

“Anxious to get rid of me?” I ask.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I love ya, Mary Sue, but yes.”

“Even if everything goes well today, we don’t know that _he_ won’t find a way to screw it up in post,” I point out. “I could still be here awhile.”

Frank nods.

“I know it’s stressful,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure it’s no picnic for you either.”

“No, but I’ve only got one thing to worry about. You’ve got one thousand.” I smile at him. “I don’t know if I ever said it, but I really couldn’t have done any of this without you. Thank you.”

Frank waves a hand around dismissively, but he smiles back. “Any time, kiddo.”

“I really hope I don’t have to hold you to that,” I say.

Anyway — I find my quiet corner and watch while they get some shots with Damian in his weird grey-alien-had-sex-with-a-giant-chicken costume.

Jason comes back as they’re doing this and he has Tommy in tow. Tommy is impressed with the chompers. He’s also still pretty impressed with Jason. The cute hero worshipper and his father figure thing is obviously not just something that happens on screen with these two.

Tommy sticks around (after getting a high five from Damian) and watches the filming for awhile.

I’m struck by how good Jason is with these types of scenes. There’s an awful lot of marks and motions to remember while still needing to convey enough anxiety to keep the tension high and enough steely resolve that the audience doesn’t forget who’s the big hero here. I may have gotten tired of his speechifying and his smarmy flirtation after a (short) while, but he does scenes like this flawlessly. He’s also great when he’s not being the center of attention. There’s a reason why he got shipped with nearly every member of the command crew. He has incredible chemistry with all of them.

After all of the build-up and fretting over this, the scene is filmed with a minimum of fuss, really.

It’s a bit anticlimactic.

And I’m still here.

What could it possibly fucking _be_? What does Gath’gor still have planned?

“Please don’t chew it off. I’ve become rather fond of it.”

It’s Alex. I stop gnawing on my lower lip and smile at him.

“How’s the chase through the resonance mass dampening chamber going?”

“Super,” I say. “They’re done with it, and in plenty of time for lunch. Which reminds me — aren’t you due in makeup?”

“I have a few minutes. I wanted to ask you if you’d like to get some dinner with me this evening.”

“I’d love to, if I can.”

“If?”

I gesture toward the chompers. “This is what I was working on. I may be called back very suddenly now that it’s finished.”

“So soon?” he asks.

“I’m afraid so,” I reply.

“Very well. I’ll check back with you at the end of the day.”

I nod. “Okay.”

The rest of the day is uneventful. I eat lunch with Elliot and Ros. Ros is still pretty sore about the script, and she’s hinting that perhaps Frank needs to lay off the cocaine.

But there are no disasters. No one shows up to announce that the studio has canceled the show or that some exec read Ros’s script and is demanding that it be used immediately.

A fire doesn’t break out.

I’m beginning to think that I’ll be here through post-production.

It’s as the day is winding down and I’m standing in Frank’s office that it finally comes.

Alex catches up with me while I’m waiting for Frank to wrap up his phone call, so he’s sitting on the couch, also waiting.

Frank hangs up, and the phone rings again immediately.

“This is the last one,” he tells us, his finger poised over the line button.

He presses it. “Frank Ross here.” He’s silent for a moment, then he says, “Actually, my tech expert is right here. She can answer your question.” He hands the phone to me and I take it.

“Hello,” I say. “This is Mary Sue Zimmerman.” I don’t even hesitate over the Zimmerman any more.

“Hey, Ken Williams here, On-Line Systems. We’re video game developers.”

“ _Mystery House_ ,” I say.

“You’ve heard of us?!” He seems delighted.

The truth is that Roberta Williams is one of my heroes, but it would seem really weird to tell him that at this point in time. Besides, I’ll get the chance to mention it to her in person sometime in the early nineties.

“I get around,” I say. He laughs.

“Well, listen. I got a really weird call today from one of your producers. Said you’d changed the sequence on the chompers. Those are a big part of the game, of course, and I just wanted to confirm that with you.”

“I’m glad you did. We’ve had a prankster impersonating members of our team lately. We haven’t changed the sequence. It’s 2…2…4…2. 2…2…4…2. 2…3…8…2.”

I no sooner get the last digit out, when the sparkles start.

I drop the phone, and Frank catches it.

Alex looks as stunned as Elliot did.

“Bye, Alex. It was…” But I can’t think of a good enough superlative, and then it’s too late.

 

Fred and Laliari shimmer into view…

… and then shimmer right back out.

They’re replaced by Mi-Na, who is sitting across the table from me in what looks like a Denny’s. I’ve opened my mouth to ask her what’s going on when the memories hit.

If it was like minnows the first time, it’s an entire school of sharks now.

All I can do is clutch my head and try not to scream until it’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to add to the warning at the top of the chapter. I didn't want to entirely spoil a forty-year-old play for any reader who might not have seen it yet, so Mary Sue and her companion don't discuss the details much. Mary Sue does mention that men with pink triangles were not released when the camps were liberated at the end of the war.
> 
> Also, it's just one of the most amazing plays ever.
> 
>  
> 
> [Rachmaninoff's _Piano Concerto No. 2_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEGOihjqO9w&t=90s)


	6. Quest Con Six -- 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine becomes embroiled in the Fandom Drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some homophobic and sex negative statements in this chapter.
> 
> Also (obviously) some Fandom Drama. 
> 
> A note about that -- it didn't take much effort to find scenarios that play out again and again in various fandoms. You may even find yourself wondering if I just fictionalized something you know about or lived through. I am, but I'm not. I took care to only include stuff that seems to crop up over and over in fandom spaces. The specifics may change, but the pearl-clutching, tribalism, and poor decisions remain the same.

The third picture in my frame is of Mi-Na, Cece, Shondra, and me. I’m wearing my favorite jeans — the black ones with big, fat, cabbage roses on them — and a man’s white dress shirt. I have some kind of gigantic brooch at my collar and a tuxedo jacket that I found at a thrift store (with the sleeves rolled up, natch). A bowler hat with a scarf tied around it over the hat band and a pair of glasses with large, perfectly round lenses complete the ensemble. What can I say? Jackson wasn’t the only uncomfortable thing I ditched this year. My boobs never did fit right in those Victorian blouses. Now, one year before _Pretty in Pink_ , I somehow manage to look like both Andie and Ducky.

Cece’s wearing a light (I remember it being blue) drop-waisted sun dress — also with big roses on it. Big roses were on just everything back in those days. She’s had her hair cut short and she’s styled it in big waves like Princess Di. It shows off her long pearl bead earrings.

Shondra’s wearing a form-fitting suit with a black geometric print on the jacket. (If I remember correctly, the background color is teal.) It has those sleeves that are boxy at the shoulder, then tight where they end just above the elbow, a sweetheart neckline with black piping and a peplum lined in black taffeta which flounces dramatically from her hips. Her hair is in a perfect chignon and she’s got big button earrings with the same black pattern.

I asked Shondra once why she always dresses up so much for con. She said it makes up for all the days she spends slouching around her studio in a tube top and paint-spattered overalls.

Mi-Na’s wearing jeans and an oversized shirt. It looks black in the photo, but I think it was red. Her shirt is belted loosely with one of those huge belts that buckle at the hip.

We clearly didn’t notice Fred taking our picture. He must have done it just after the opening. We’re standing in front of the stage looking excited and happy. Mi-Na is the center of attention. She hasn’t been to con in years and Cece is doing her level best to make her feel welcomed back to the fold. Shondra and I are watching and smiling.

This was 1985 -- Quest Con 6. Mi-Na and I had just graduated from college — I had a degree in Theater Arts, and Mi-Na had one in Philosophy. Laugh all you want at me, but Mi-Na had already been admitted to Cornell’s law program.

I was geeked that Mi-Na made it to con that year. She’d been very focused on college, so she hadn’t had time to attend since high school despite going to college in Berkeley. Also, she’d been getting in touch with her Korean roots, and that had kept her busy when college hadn’t. Mi-Na was adopted by the Larsons when she was less than a year old. “I was a Korean baby before Korean babies were cool,” she liked to say.

Nobody knew what Mi-Na’s birth parents named her. In fact, nobody even knew who they were. So Mi-Na is the name she chose for herself.

“Does it mean something?” I asked.

“Does Mary Sue mean something?” she returned.

“It means Jesus’s mom and lilies,” I said. Ha! Thought I hadn’t looked it up.

She laughed. “I just liked the sound of it, and Mom can pronounce it. It means something like ‘pretty and dainty or elegant,’ which is a little embarrassing since I picked it out myself.”

I understood why she wasn’t super-comfortable with that meaning. Mi-Na is small and female and Asian, and there are certain assumptions people make about her — like that she’s hyper-feminine and… docile. She is not docile.

She and I shared a single room that year since we hadn’t really seen each other in almost three years. She’d spent last summer doing something called Habitat for Humanity. (Yeah, I know it’s big _now_.) She met Jimmy Carter, so that was cool. The summer before that, she did a Korean language immersion program. After Quest Con 6, she took her first trip to South Korea.

We checked in on Thursday, just so we could spend time catching up.

“Any boyfriends?” she asked around a mouthful of quarter-pounder with extra tomatoes. Dainty, my ass.

“Not really this year,” I said. “Just a couple tumbles with my ex, because I’m weak. And now that we’ve broken up, he suddenly likes sex.”

“God, Mary Sue!” Mi-Na tried to look judgmental, but that’s difficult when you’re stuffing fries into your face.

I shrugged. “Sue me.”

“I can’t,” said Mi-Na. “I don’t have my license yet.”

“How ‘bout you?” I asked. “Or is that another frivolous pursuit?”

“No dudes,” she said. “I don’t have time for it. Give me a good imagination and a vibrator any day.”

“God, Mi-Na.”

“Oh come on! Are you telling me you don’t have a vibrator?”

“No. Where am I going to get a vibrator in Kalamazoo?” I asked. I mean, there was a place out on the highway, but — ew.

She rolled her eyes at me.

“There’s these wonderful new inventions called catalogs,” she said. “Maybe you’ve heard of them?”

“Yeah, I need something like that coming to my parents’ house all summer.”

“Fine. I’m getting you a vibrator.” She shoved the rest of her hamburger into her mouth and stood up to put her shoes back on. She looked back at me and swallowed. “Well, come on!”

“What? Right now?”

“No time like the present for a present,” she said, grinning. “Besides, I know you. You won’t want to leave once the con starts.”

She had a point there.

She ended up taking me to a little boutique that clearly catered to gay dudes, although we weren’t the only women in the store.

The salesman/unlicensed sex therapist was very helpful, and suggested something called an egg vibrator.

“It’s a good beginner toy,” he said. “It’s inexpensive, it can be inserted or used on your clit, and it’s quiet.”

I asked Mi-Na, “What kind do you have?”

“One of those and a Magic Wand.”

The store had floor models of all the vibrators, so I’d tried the Magic Wand (on my thigh). It made my clit cower in fear, to be honest.

“I’m kind of impressed,” I said. “You have a super-clitoris — able to withstand a seven-point-O.”

Mi-Na laughed so hard she snorted. “You’re terrible. I don’t know why I take you anywhere.”

We took one of the eggs to the register. I insisted on paying.

“Consider it your birthday present,” said Mi-Na.

“That’s what you said about paying for the extra night at the hotel,” I argued.

“Christmas, then.”

“I might want you to buy me something else by Christmas.”

“Too bad,” said Mi-Na, and she paid for the vibrator. I paid for a pack of batteries. The salesman put a little instruction booklet in the bag.

I considered telling Mi-Na that she was being pushy, but decided nah — she just wanted to show she cared, and I got a free vibrator out of it.

We made it back to our room and took showers – me first, Mi-Na second. I lay on the queen-sized bed in my giant t-shirt and undies, listening to the Talking Heads ( _Speaking in Tongues_ , if you care) on my Walkman, and reading the booklet that came with my vibrator.

Mi-Na came out of the bathroom in her own giant t-shirt and flopped down on the bed next to me. I stopped the tape and pulled my headphones off.

“You wanna watch a movie?” she asked.

“What’s on?”

Mi-Na picked up the movie schedule. “ _Bachelor Party_ ,” she said.

“Pass.”

We lay there for a minute, then Mi-Na said, “Too bad the bed doesn’t shake. I brought quarters.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“Yeah, I’m kidding,” she said. “I brought quarters, but that’s just because I was doing laundry right up until I had to pick you up at the airport.”

“God, remember Illinois and the look on our moms’ faces when they came back to that motel room and we were laying on that bed just giggling our asses off?”

“Remember? It’s seared into my brain.”

“We would never have known that it was a sex thing if they hadn’t gone off the deep end,” I said.

“Oh! And then Mom called Dad and told him that he’d booked us into a brothel!”

“So, of course we wanted to know what ‘brothel’ meant!”

“Sex freaked them out so much,” said Mi-Na.

“To be fair, I don’t think my mom was that freaked out about sex,” I said. “I mean, yeah, some parts of it. She didn’t want me getting knocked up at 18 like she did, and she didn’t want me to get a reputation — given what our town was like, I don’t blame her. She was freaked out that your mom was freaked out. She was always worried that people would think she was a bad parent, probably because she had me so young.”

“Mary Sue, you learned what sex was on the same day I did, from a book at the library.”

“It didn’t occur to her to tell me because I didn’t ask. When I asked where babies come from, she gave me the facts about wombs. She just kind of glossed over how babies get in there, and I thought I had the whole story. Your mom thought you’d stay a virgin forever if she just didn’t tell you about any of it.”

“Well, it’s working,” said Mi-Na.

Wait, what?

“Really?”

“Do you think I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I’d lost my virginity?”

“I guess not,” I said. “So, why?”

“Why haven’t I had sex?”

“Yeah, I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you’re beautiful and smart and funny. Guys must be lining up.”

She looked at me for a minute, and then she said, “I don’t want guys.”

And, stupid me, it took me a minute.

“Girls?” I asked.

Mi-Na nodded.

A third minute went by while I absorbed that. “Cool.”

“Cool? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means, I’m happy you told me, and I want you to like who you like.” She just lay there looking at me and I started to panic. Mi-Na trusted me and I was fucking it up. “I mean, it’s none of my business, and you shouldn’t care if I care, but I’m cool with it. I could never not love you, not over this, Mi-Na. I mean, I write about gay stuff all the time. I’ve had sex with girls. Who am I to judge? It’s a good thing to be who you are, and I want you to be happy, and I’ll always be your best friend – I hope. Are you okay with it?”

Mi-Na laughed. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” she said. “I’m okay. Or pretty okay. I’m obviously petrified to actually try to have sex, but I’ve wrapped my head around the lesbian thing.”

I nodded, calmer now that I knew I wasn’t hurting her or pissing her off.

“Oh fuck,” she said, putting her hands over her face. “Maybe I’m not dealing that well. I should’ve at least gotten to second base by now.”

“There’s a schedule?”

She removed one hand in order to glare at me.

“Secret sapphic schedule?”

“Stop.”

“Lesbian lineup?”

“Mary Sue.” She tried to look stern, but I could see her mouth twitch.

“Tribade timetable?”

“Oh that’s it!” She grabbed a pillow and held it over my face.

I struggled. She picked up the pillow and looked at me. She was kneeling beside me now. I stuck out my tongue in what could only be described as a ridiculously lascivious manner and wiggled it around.

“I’m sorry you have to die, Mary Sue,” she said and put the pillow back over my face.

I pushed the pillow off, laughing. Mi-Na flopped back down on the bed next to me.

“So why are you afraid?” I asked.

She made a face. “It took a while to figure it out. It took even longer to come out to anyone. I’m still only out to a few women from the feminist groups I belong to — and now you. And I really was busy. Discovering your roots while getting a Bachelor’s is time-consuming. I figured it could wait.” She paused. I watched her. “Then one of my friends introduced me to this girl, Leah, and we… hit it off, I guess. She ticked my boxes, as you’re always saying. She asked me out. We had a couple of terrific dates. I started thinking about naked dates, and I chickened out. The idea of trying to, you know, give someone pleasure and enjoy myself and all that while it’s all happening for the first time — it’s just overwhelming. And I couldn’t take the distinct possibility that I’d do something stupid and she’d realize that I’m not the cool person I pretend to be. I told her that I needed to focus on college and whatnot, and she found another girlfriend because she’s amazing.”

“Oh, Mi-Na. I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head a little. “That was back in the fall. I’m over it — mostly. I’m still kicking myself, but I’m not heartbroken.”

Sure you’re not, I thought, but what I said was, “You know, it’s always weird with someone new. I doubt anyone you have sex with is expecting it to be awesome right away, especially a woman.”

“Are we that complicated?”

I shrugged. “We’re just smarter.” That got a laugh.

And then, because I’m a problem solver, I said, “Maybe it would be better to just have a one-night stand. You know, without the pressure of a new relationship and stuff.”

She looked at me, eyes wide, biting her lower lip just a little.

“I’ve considered that,” she said. “Maybe ask someone I trust and like — maybe a close friend who’s more experienced?”

It took me a minute.

“Someone who already knows you’re a dork?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Like… me, for instance?”

She fucking blushed.

I thought about it — I mean, I thought Mi-Na was attractive (Still do.), and it would just be practice, like in eighth grade. And, just because I didn’t think of myself as bisexual yet, didn’t mean I wasn’t. And she was, you know, asking me for help.

“Alright,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know how much experience being in a couple of threesomes is worth. Although, now that I think about it, the dude was pretty superfluous in the second one.”

“It’s just enough experience — trust me — not too much and not too little. I don’t want to become a master of the lesbian Kama Sutra — I just want to do this with someone I feel safe with and you’re the first person I thought of.” Well that was pretty flattering — me being the first person she thought of.

Wait a minute.

“You had this planned!” I said. “The extra night, the vibrator…”

“The extra night, yes, but not the vibrator,” she said. “You’re not mad?”

“Nope, not mad. Let’s do this.” I grinned at her.

She took a deep breath. “Okay.” And she leaned closer and kissed me. She was wearing peach-flavored lip balm, and the kiss was very soft. She leaned back.

So I followed her and kissed her back, let my tongue touch her lip. Peaches. We kissed a little longer, then I leaned back.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Positive. Why?”

“You kissed me more passionately when we were twelve,” I said.

She huffed out a tiny laugh. “I’m nervous.”

“Reeeeaaally?” That earned me a mock punch on my arm. “Do you want to lead, or do you want me to?”

“You,” she said.

“Okay. Tell me if you don’t like anything or if there’s anything you want me to do.”

“Okay.”

She put her hand on my cheek and kissed me again. This time her lips were already parted when they met mine, and her tongue peeked out to touch my tongue when I licked her lip.

I wriggle a little closer to her and rested my hand against the dip of her waist, still kissing her, or still letting her kiss me since I was starting to concentrate more on my hand than my mouth. I skimmed over the curve of her hip until I reached her bare thigh. She tensed slightly, but I kept on petting her leg until she relaxed. Then I tickled the back of her knee.

When she broke away from our kiss to laugh, I sat up and shucked my t-shirt. I may not have had much experience to go on, but one thing I had very pleasant memories of from those experiences was breasts. Breasts are wonderful — nipples, extraordinary. Even on men, I love them. So I figured there was every chance that Mi-Na would enjoy them too.

I lay back and kissed her again, this time rubbing the back of her neck a little.

“How you doing?” I asked.

“Great,” she said. “Should I take off my shirt?”

“Whenever you want. There’s no hurry.”

But she was already yanking her shirt up over her head. For someone who was nervous, she sure got naked quickly. I’m pretty sure it took me a good half hour to get down to just my panties my first time.

She lay down in my arms, pressing her breasts against mine, and sighed.

“Good?” I asked.

“Mmmm,” she replied. So I tangled my legs with hers and held her and stroked the skin just below her shoulder blades.

She felt soft and little. Not that she was much littler than me. We’re the same height, although I’ve got almost twenty pounds on her. It was just that I was used to men, of course. I admit, it made me feel a little protective of her.

“How come I’m the one with an extra arm?” she asked, wriggling said arm between us.

“Here,” I said, rolling onto my back. “Lie on top of me.”

She pressed her torso down on mine. Oh, I thought, I could do this for a very long while. She still seemed a bit unsure of where to put her hands, but at least now neither of them would fall asleep.

I buried my fingers in her hair and gave it a slight tug, just enough to get her to lift her head a little. Then I kissed her. She was far less hesitant this time. Her tongue slipped into my mouth and stroked mine and I hummed a little and sucked, wanting her to keep it there.

She broke away to catch her breath, but I wasn’t quite done tasting her, so I kissed her cheek and the underside of her jaw and on down her neck. She shivered against me. So of course I did it again.

She sat up, got her leg over me, and straddled my hips. I imagined having a cock and how much I’d enjoy having her slip, wet and open, right down over it. I tend to imagine that with all of my partners sooner or later.

Anyway, she was very sexy up there, all messy hair and golden skin in the lamplight. I suppose I looked much the same. There was a bit of dissonance now that her face was farther away from mine – my brain had trouble moving it from the best friend file to the lover file. I stopped trying. It was only temporary after all. It was easier to just focus on the things I didn’t usually see.

So I stroked her skin — long sweeping glides over her thighs, hips, ass, up over her hipbones and waist and ribs — and finally let her breasts fill my hands.

“Oh god, Mi-Na. Damn.” I squeezed gently, letting my palms rub against her nipples a bit. She has small breasts, sort of a flattened cone shape, and she was letting me touch them, so that was pretty damn awesome.

“My nipples are a little weird,” she said.

“Am I touching them wrong?” I asked, loosening my grip, which I had thought was fairly light.

“No. I mean they look a little weird.”

I uncovered one to take a look. They were smallish, brown, and the areolae were puffy.

“They’re cute,” I informed her.

“Cute?” she repeated in a don’t-you-bullshit-me tone of voice.

“Bring ‘em here and I’ll show you how cute they are.” I tugged on her ribcage, urging her and her soft, cute breasts closer to my face.

She scooted up my body and leaned forward, her hands planted on either side of my head. I made my tongue broad and flat, then licked a line from the underside of her breast, up the soft curve, over the softer skin of her swollen areola, stopping at the tight nub of her nipple. Then I drew her into my mouth and swirled my tongue around both her nipple and the surrounding flesh. She pressed her breast against my mouth, and I responded by sucking a little harder. When that met with more enthusiastic mashing into my face, I put my hand on her ribs (to prevent her from squashing me flat), and applied more pressure with my tongue.

By the time I’d switched to the right breast, she was making noises that ran the gamut from mewling to frustrated sobbing, and her hips were rocking against my stomach. I slid my hand under the elastic on the leg of her underwear to grab her lush ass (Mi-Na has an amazing ass — like an upside down heart). I kneaded it in time with her movements. I knew she probably wasn’t getting the kind of friction she needed from my tummy — it was much too squishy — but a little frustration is good for the orgasm.

And she was just lovely — so lost to what she was feeling. It was intensely erotic, the way she wasn’t too careful with me. The men I fuck are aware that I’m smaller than they are. They’re mindful of their strength and weight in comparison to mine. But Mi-Na wasn’t. She didn’t need to be. And it was just really… hot.

I let go of her nipple and tipped my head back for another kiss, which I got — sloppy, noisy, and with _lots_ of tongue. She slid back down a little to get a better angle. As she did, her clit finally found something more satisfying to rub against, namely the place where my pubic bones meet above my mound. A little lower (and with a bit of cooperation from me) and she could have likely gotten my button in on the action too, but she was grinding pretty hard, so I didn’t mention it. I just held on and kissed her while she did her thing, wondering if she’d get off this way.

Turns out she would get off this way, as I found out when she buried her face against my neck and whined and gasped and whined a little more, then just sort of collapsed. I lay there, combing her hair back from her face while she calmed.

“How you doing?” I asked.

“Do you always check up on your partners this much?” she asked, muffled against my neck.

“Yes.”

“I’m doing fiiiiiiine,” she said, giggling. She looked up at me. “Do I want to know why you check up so much?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She snuggled in and squeezed me tight. “Is there anything else you want to do?” she asked, her hand cupping my breast.

“Pull your panties off and lick you,” I said, wanting her to come again.

Mi-Na sat half-way up and looked at me. “What?”

“You asked if I wanted to do anything else, and I want to lick your quim.”

“Quim?”

“Pussy, then?”

“I didn’t know anyone actually said quim,” she said.

“I like ‘quim,’” I replied. “It’s not gross or cutesy. ‘Cunt’ has too much history to be used lightly. ‘Pussy’ is okay, but overused, kind of common. ‘Vulva’ is… well, you know, a little too ‘health class,’ and not exactly euphonious. I do tend to call mine a ‘snatch’ when I’m doing maintenance on it. I don’t know why.

“Anyway, now that I’ve given my oral defense of Names I Call My Hoo-ha, may I get oral with yours? I mean, it’s just a suggestion.”

“You’re so weird, Mary Sue. Go for it. Lick my quim.” She rolled off me and lay on her back, her arms outspread, head turned to one side, eyes tightly shut, trying not to giggle — like a not-very-convincing sacrificial virgin. Which I suppose she was. I mean, I had no idea what exactly counts as losing your virginity to a lesbian, but I was positive that it involved removing your underpants.

Having created this arbitrary line, I proceeded to cross it. I sat up and pulled her panties (lavender, nylon, little bow at the front) down her generous hips. Mi-Na is slender, (One might even say “elegant or dainty.”) but what fat she has is distributed on her hips and butt.

It was a little sobering. Sucking her nipples while she got off had felt like an extension of our old let’s-practice-Frenching sessions. Getting below her waist was a reminder that we were adults now and our indiscretions wouldn’t be categorized as youthful anymore.

I got off the bed and grabbed her ankles. “Come down here, please,” I said, then simply dragged her bodily across the spread until her butt was at the edge of the mattress.

“If you insist,” she replied.

“I do.” I knelt on the carpet and got comfy. I rubbed my cheek against her inner thigh. God, her skin was just satiny and perfect.

“Hey, Mary Sue?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to… uhm… finger me?”

I held up my hand. “Not without trimming these first, anyway.” I usually wear my nails longish. “Do you want me to?”

“No!” she said quickly. “I mean, I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Is my tongue okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Your… that’s fine.” How fine? I wished I had a cock to work with here. They tend to give away more secrets than vulvas (vulvae?) do. Or maybe it’s just that I had less practice reading vulvae. I firmly told the fortune teller image that popped into my head to fuck off.

“Fine as in, ‘Sounds awesome, Mary Sue. Please put your tongue in my quim,’ or, ‘Ugh, if you insist. I’ll try to lie back and think of England?’”

“The first one,” she said, in that why-do-I-put-up-with-you-again tone.

“Okay.”

I kissed her thighs again, just to feel the softness, then parted the hair on Mi-Na’s pussy. I had to admit pussy was a good word for hers, at least. Mi-Na didn’t trim or anything, so her hair was long and sort of wispy and soft. Maybe if mine were that soft, I wouldn’t bother with keeping it short either.

I held her outer labia apart and licked long stripes from one side of her vagina up the groove between the inner and outer lips and ended with a firm stroke along the side of her clit. This elicited more of the whining and gasping noises that seemed to be her personal chorus of gratification, so I figured I was onto something good. I continued that for a bit, varying it by occasionally pressing my tongue inside her body to taste her — tangy and a little sweet — and spreading her liquid up to her button.

I gradually paid more attention to her dark pink bud. She was thrusting upward, driving her clit more firmly against my mouth every time I touched it. I could feel my own clit throbbing in sympathy.

So I got my hands on her ass, pressed my lips around her button, and licked, focusing on following the rhythm of her hips and keeping everything nice and wet. I felt her fingers bury themselves in my hair, nails pricking my scalp as she moved against my face. I applied just a little suction and…

She was gone — I could feel her back arching and her butt lifting off the bed, her thighs shaking as she came. Then she yanked her hips down and away from my mouth, too sensitive to touch now.

I sat back, grinning, and swiped my wet chin with the back of my arm.

“Holy shit!” said Mi-Na.

I laughed and crawled up on the bed beside her. She rolled over and curled into my side, her hand going immediately to my breast again and staying there.

We lay like that for a minute or two — me with my arms around her shoulders, Mi-Na snuggled down and kneading my breast like she was testing produce.

“They’re soooo big,” she said after a moment or two of not particularly erotic squeezing.

“Yeah, I noticed that when I got my first minimizer bra at 13,” I replied.

“They’re really fun though.” She rolled my nipple between her thumb and second finger, sending little jolts of pleasure zinging through my system. That was more like it. My other nipple hardened immediately, hoping for its own share of the goings-on.

“I’ve just had an epiphany,” said Mi-Na.

“Yeah?” I gasped. “Wanna sh-share?”

“I suddenly get why straight women get turned on by erections.”

I laughed. “Feel free to — ah! — to find out why we like sucking on them.”

“In a minute,” she said. “First, I’m going to take your new toy into the bathroom and give it a wash and a couple of batteries. Then I’m going to show you how to use it.”

“I thought the vibrator wasn’t planned,” I said.

“I’m improvising.”

I’m not really sure that Mi-Na taught me much — not much beyond vibrators are really fun, anyway. I really wasn’t in a position to see what she was doing — her head was in the way most of the time — and I can barely reach my own nipple with the very tip of my tongue, let alone suck it while masturbating.

But by golly, we christened the hell out of that vibrator.

After we’d re-showered, changed into our spare underpants that our moms had drummed into our heads that we needed to always always _always_ pack, and put on our t-shirts, we crawled into bed.

“Feel better?” I asked.

“Yeah, actually I do,” said Mi-Na. “And, surprisingly, I think I may have actually learned some things from you.”

“Shocking. Like what?”

“There’s no joke so lame that it can’t break the tension. My nipples are cute. And pack a vibrator for backup.”

“I’m so smart.”

“Yeah, you are,” she said, rolling over and kissing my cheek. “Goodnight, Dr. Ruth.”

I smiled at her. “I’m always in your corner, you know.”

“Same to you.”

 

I know this seems like a lot of stuff (smut) that has nothing to do with the story, but I wanted to show how it is between Mi-Na and me. Our lives went in completely different directions. They were already drifting apart, even then. But we make a point of reconnecting every few years, and we’re the kind of friends who can have had sex without it making things weird.

And when push comes to shove, we always have the other one in our corner.

I might also have just wanted to tell y’all about the good stuff that happened that year before I have to get to the part about the fecal matter hitting the whirly-bladey thing.

 

Quest Con 6 was huge. Okay, maybe not by the standards of some of the really gigantic, entire-population-of-a-small-city cons you see today, but exponentially bigger than the one- or (maybe) two-hundred people that showed up while the show was still in production.

Syndication had introduced the show to a whole new group of fans. I’d say there were way more guys, not that the fandom wasn’t still pretty weighted toward women, or maybe it just seemed that way because I mostly hung out with other writers. The people producing most of the fiction for any fandom are women. I’m sure if you went to WrestleMania and walked up to the largest group of women there, half of them would be producing Hogan/Piper enemies-to-lovers fic (not that they’d admit it to you).

It seemed like there were more kids too. I mean, there were definitely more of them, I’m just not sure if there was a higher percentage of them than before. I didn’t take a formal census is what I’m saying.

At any rate, it was harder to find the old familiar faces. Mi-Na and I didn’t even see Cece and Shondra until that part of the opening ceremonies where the MC brings out the organizers to introduce and thank them. Cece had waved at Shondra in the third row. I was surprised that Margot wasn’t sitting with her.

When we finally caught up with her, I asked Shondra where Margot was.

“She doesn’t want people talking about it, so keep it quiet — she had a stroke in March.”

“What!?”

“She’s doing okay,” said Shondra. “She spent a few weeks in the hospital, but she’s home now. I visited her last weekend, and she said she was writing again. I offered to help her out at con if she wanted to go, but she still gets tired easily and she didn’t want people fussing over her.”

“Does she have help at home?” I asked, knowing that Margot didn’t have any immediate family.

“She has a niece who’s staying with her.”

“I thought she didn’t even talk to her brothers and sisters.”

“I guess she’s been in contact with one brother since the stroke,” said Shondra. “It’s his daughter. She’s a quiet girl. Margot seems very fond of her.”

“Well that’s good, I guess.”

Cece caught up with us then and there was more hugging and greeting. That must have been when Fred snapped his picture.

“There’s a great cover gallery in the dealers’ room,” said Cece. “We got a bunch of artists to lend us the original art and we’re displaying them next to the covers. One of Shondra’s old covers for _The Protector Chronicles_ is there.”

“The one with Madison and Chen?” I asked.

“Yup.”

“Come on,” I said to Mi-Na. “You should see it. It’s a great cover.”

It was also one of the very few covers Shondra had done for a gen fic zine.

“They’re wearing so many clothes,” said Mi-Na.

“Well, it’s a G-rated gallery,” said Cece.

“And since I’ve only ever done two covers that would qualify…” said Shondra.

It was a great cover. Tawny is popping up from behind a console to shoot her nebulizer at a Rulfian soldier while Chen crouches below it, fiddling with some wires. Chen’s expression is one of total concentration on his repairs. Tawny appears grimly determined to provide cover so that he can work.

“What’s the other one?” asked Mi-Na.

“It’s just a portrait of Laredo,” said Shondra.

“I wanted to use it too,” said Cece, “but she gave the original away.”

We wandered down the line, looking at the other covers. About halfway, Mi-Na got distracted by something on a dealer’s table.

“Oh my God! Mary Sue, it’s _Galactic Adventures_!” Sure enough, the dealer had a bunch of older zines and one of them was the one that Mi-Na had published back in 1980. It was in pretty good shape and selling for one whole dollar over its cover price. (Told you it wasn’t a collector’s item.)

By this time, there was a knot of people coming from the other direction and looking at the artworks, so our group sidled over to the dealer’s table to let them pass. I looked through the old zines, checking for some treasure I might have missed, but they were mostly stuff I already had or had already decided not to get for good reasons.

“It’s a great little zine,” said the dealer. “They never published another one, but the main author, Thalia Z., has something in a zine every year.”

“Thanks,” said Mi-Na. “I published it.”

“It was great!” repeated the dealer. “Why didn’t you do another one?”

“I just got busy with college and stuff.”

“Perfectly understandable. College comes first.”

“Got anything under the table this year?” Cece asked the dealer.

“No, too close to the traffic from the gallery. It’s great for sales, but not so great for being discreet. If you want to come up to my room later, I’m going to be open for business from seven to nine tonight.”

“Ugh. They _would_ sneak in one of those!” It was a woman with Heidi braids and a skirted overalls/jumper on. Her voice really carried, but then again, she meant it to.

Let me just pause to say that I have nothing against Heidi braids. I wear a variation of them pretty often, myself. However, jumpers that look like overalls are vile, and their association with this woman will only cement them in my low opinion forever.

“One of what?” asked her companion, a woman with brown hair and a surprisingly well-done poodle perm. (Surprising because most of them were not.)

They were looking at the cover of _Crisis_ — a zine that had come out the year before. It was basically just a novelization of “The Omega Crisis,” the last cliff-hanger episode of _Galaxy Quest_ that never aired again. Since the only ways to get this episode are to buy a copy of a copy of a copy of someone’s VHS recording of the broadcast or to read this zine, it’s immensely popular. It doesn’t hurt that it’s really well-written and has great art. The dealer next to us had a stack of them, as a matter of fact, and she was doing a pretty brisk business in them too.

“Look,” said Overalls Jumper. “You need to be really careful which zines you get. Some of them are nothing but _pornography_.” Poodle Perm looked dubiously at the cover depicitng Dr. Lazarus looking angry and Cmdr. Taggart with his hands on Lazarus’s upper arms, clearly attempting to restrain him long enough to get him calmed down. It was a scene that has played out in a half dozen episodes. Once the _Bek_ _’Marik_ (“battle fever”) was upon Lazarus, only Taggart (and one time, Chen) dared to interfere.

Honestly, I could kind of see how, if you were really looking for it, there might be a little sexual tension there. Certainly 90 percent of the slash fans saw it. Taggart talking Lazarus down from the _Bek_ _’Marik_ was foreplay for those fans. On the other hand, lots of gen fics featured scenes like that. It’s evidence of Lazarus and Taggart’s close relationship regardless of whether you see friendship or have your slash goggles on.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Poodle Perm. “Tawny’s not even on this cover. How can you tell it’s… naughty stuff?”

“Oh, it’s not just zines where Tawny and Taggart make love that are the problem,” said Overalls Jumper, “There are ones where they write Taggart and Dr. Lazarus together. You know —” she paused to stage whisper, “ _homosexually_.”

“What?!” said Poodle Perm. “Why would someone do that? That’s perverted! Are there, like, a lot of fans that are gays?” She started looking around as if she expected a large group of dudes in full leather to come sauntering in. Not that it doesn’t happen, but they’re generally Mank’Nar cosplayers.

“No,” said Oshkosh B’Gosh. “ _Women_ write it. And read it too.”

“Ewwwww! Why?”

“Like you said — perverts.”

Now “pervert” is an insult that rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. Hell, some of my boyfriends use it as a term of endearment. But this idiot — standing in the dealer’s room, screeching about slash (all of which is well-hidden per con rules) because it might harm children, a dozen of whom had just been introduced to this interesting concept by her public hand-wringing — pissed me right the fuck off.

“There’s nothing wrong with slash,” I told her, quietly. “And anyway, the dealers wouldn’t sell it to you unless you asked for it specifically. They keep all of the erotic stuff hidden, because, as you point out, there are kids here. And all of the covers in the gallery are from general fiction zines — no romance of any kind.”

“I wouldn’t call Cmdr. Taggart and Dr. Lazarus _sodomizing_ each other _romantic_ ,” said Overalls. “It’s _obscene_. I don’t know how the people who make that stuff, or sell it, don’t get arrested. It’s _illegal_ , for God’s sake!”

“The law’s pretty vague and hard to make stick,” I said. (I have a tendency to keep up with First Amendment issues for obvious reasons.) “And no one’s forcing you to read it or look at it.”

“It’s disgusting. I’ll bet if Frank Ross or the actors knew about it, they’d be livid!”

Cece decided to join the conversation. “Ladies, I assure you that Frank and the actors and the writers all know what sorts of fan works get created. As Mary Sue pointed out, we keep those materials discreetly hidden so as not to offend those who don’t wish to see them. But we have a kind of unspoken rule — we don’t make you look at it, and you don’t sermonize about it. It’s just not something we discuss, _especially_ in the middle of the dealers’ room, okay?”

Overalls scowled at Cece’s badge. “I see that the organizers aren’t going to do anything about this problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” said Cece. “We’ve had five very successful Quest Cons, and erotic zines of every description have been present at all of them. Now, I’m asking you politely here — if you want to discuss this further, you’ll need to take it somewhere more private.”

Poodle Perm plucked her friend’s sleeve. “Come on, Laurel. Why don’t we go get something to eat?” She looked at Cece. “Sorry.”

“No harm done,” said Cece.

Laurel snatched her arm away from her friend. “I’m not sorry,” she said, but they left anyway.

“I’m sorry too,” I told Cece. “I shouldn’t have made it worse.”

“Don’t be,” said Cece. “There are plenty of people here who were relieved to see a big name fan defend slash, especially a gen fic writer.”

“I’m in no way, shape, or form a big name fan.”

Cece snorted a little. “Yeah, you are. Maybe not the biggest, but most people have read a Thalia Z. fic. You’ve been around since the beginning, you helped organize the letter-writing campaigns, and of course, you hang out with me.”

“Of course,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I totally forgot that I’m a lady-in-waiting on your court, Your Majesty.”

“Well, don’t forget it again.”

 

We talked about it over dinner — pizza in Cece’s room.

“There’s always been friction between the slashers and the prudes,” she said. “The reason we only allowed general fiction covers in the gallery was because of a huge argument about whether or not to allow slash covers. A couple of the organizers were fine with Gwen Demarco being drawn practically naked and swooning in Nesmith’s arms, but not with a completely tame cover of Taggart and Lazarus kissing. One of them told me it was illegal to display it, which it’s not, but Sharon has always been paranoid. She actually has a safety checklist that a venue has to pass before she’ll even consider it for con. Kurt said that it would somehow harm children, by which he meant that people would be forced to explain anal sex to their six-year-olds because he has absolutely no sense. At least Gina, our head prude, was adamant that no sexy stuff whatsoever be allowed. She may be a dried-up killjoy, but she’s a fair dried-up killjoy.

“None of this is new, of course, but when we were only a couple hundred fans, it was easier to overlook. Everybody knew who was into slash and everybody had friends on both sides. Now you can just stick with the fans who think like you and demonize the ones you don’t like.”

“You mean like calling the people who don’t like slash ‘prudes?’” I asked.

“Exactly. I’d argue, however, that it’s a hell of a lot nicer than calling somebody a disgusting pervert.”

“Well, it’s only a matter of time before they try to get rid of all of us,” said Shondra.

“Women who fantasize about gay men are a straight man’s nightmare,” said Mi-Na.

I had too much experience to argue with her. Revealing my writing and reading habits had become a make-or-break moment in all of my romantic relationships even though I dated Lefty guys who were okay with not being exclusive.

“Guys, I really don’t think it’s going to come to that,” said Cece.

Shondra shook her head. “First we had to tame down our covers, even though the straight pairings could get away with anything short of showing nipples and pubes. Then we couldn’t even bring out our zines until after six in the evening. Now they’re strictly under the table, even if they’re PG, while all but the raunchiest Taggart/Tawny zines get to stay out. The next step is selling only from the rooms, like that dealer you talked to today. Finally, they’ll be cracking down even on that.”

“There are too many slashers on the organizing committee for an outright ban to happen,” said Cece.

I thought about the way that Laurel had looked at Cece’s badge.

“The members of a committee can change, Cece,” I said.

I just knew that Laurel wasn’t finished being a pain in the ass.

 

And guess what? She wasn’t.

The next day, after lunch, Cece pulled me aside. “I didn’t want you to hear this through the grapevine.”

“Hear what?” I felt like my chest was being squeezed. I was sure that Margot had had another stroke.

“The committee decided that _Galaxy Romance_ can't be sold openly because of your story.”

It took me a minute to get over the confusion of being simultaneously relieved and pissed as hell.

“Wait, what?!”

“Someone complained that it contained slash,” said Cece. “The committee read it and agreed.”

“Background slash!” I said. “ _Galaxy Romance_ was fine with it. Candy said it wasn’t a problem since it was strictly G-rated. They don’t even kiss, Cece! They don’t even hold hands!”

“They decided that since Lazarus references going to bed with Chen, that took it up to an ‘R.’”

“He never even implies that they’re going to bed for sex. Any reasonable person would assume that he’s talking about cuddling with his husband.”

“I agree. Any reasonable person would.”

Cece put her hand on my shoulder. “Look, Mary Sue. You and I hear ‘slash’ and we think of sweet romances and hot sex between two guys. Other people hear it and think of promiscuous men doing unspeakable things to each other and…”

“… and corrupting children and spreading disease,” I said, bitterly.

“The complainant did mention that. She wanted to know if pornography with Laredo in it was okay too.”

“Of course she fucking did.” I took a couple of deep breaths. “So my work went on trial without me there. Do I at least get to know which member of the PMRC accused me?”

“The committee thought it would be best if neither of you knew who the other one is,” said Cece. “But I’m pretty sure she already knows who you are. I think she was delighted to find something she could use to hurt you.”

Laurel.

I went to the dealers’ room to apologize to Candy for getting her in the middle of this brouhaha.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It’s been awesome for business. I sold out within an hour of putting it under the table. I’m taking mail orders now.”

Okay, I thought. Laurel did a little amateur sleuthing, found out that I’m Thalia Z. — not something I advertise, but not a state secret either — and obviously thought she’d strike a blow for decency and what? Get back at me a little for daring to champion filth?

Well, whatever she’d hoped to accomplish, it had backfired. Story over.

Ha!

Just kidding.

Around two o’clock, we were crossing the lobby when Fred stopped us. “Hey, Mary Sue, Mi-Na, you up for a little after hours tonight?”

“After hours?” asked Mi-Na.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said. “We’ll be there,” I told Fred.

“Great.” Fred turned to go, but lo and behold, Laurel was bearing down on us.

“Shit,” muttered Fred, so I was pretty sure this wasn’t his first encounter with her.

He put on his most patient smile.

“Mr. Kwan,” said Laurel, brandishing a copy of _Galaxy Romance_. “I don’t know if you’ve seen this, but it contains a story in which you’re depicted as a _deviant_ who is married to Dr. Lazarus, and this woman,” she gestured toward me, “is the person who wrote it.”

If any of us registered shock, it was over the fact that confronting the actors with the fanfic just wasn’t done. That, and the fact that she clearly didn’t know what everyone else knew — Fred openly consorted with fans who made no secret about their predilection for slash fiction — told me just how new she was in this fandom.

Fred, still smiling gently, said, “I have read the story. My only complaint about the way Mary Sue depicts Sgt. Chen is that she doesn’t do it often enough. However, I was happy to see that I get to be conscious in this one. As for being married to Dr. Lazarus, I think that they would make a good couple. I’ve always felt that Chen and Lazarus have a sort of… implicit rapport between them. If they cared to explore that, I could see it blossoming into love.”

“So you don’t mind that you’re being portrayed as a homosexual pervert?” she asked.

“My character is being portrayed as having become a good father, a caring friend, and a loving husband. I think that Tech Sgt. Chen could be all of those things. I think he’s already shown that he cares about his friends. As for his sexuality, I believe that, in the future, nobody will care about how people love each other.”

“That’s not love,” she said. But I think she realized that she was getting nowhere with Fred.

The day just got weirder after that. I had random people coming up to me to tell me that they’d always loved my stories and that they supported me even if I wrote slash. I had slash fans tell me that they supported me even though I didn’t write Lazarus/Taggart. A few of them were plainly relieved that it hadn’t been _their_ fic that started the whole contretemps.

And I had people give me the stink-eye. One woman told me that she was going to throw out all of her zines that had my stories in them, even though I used to be her favorite.

It seemed that everyone now had an opinion of my abilities as an author that they wanted to share with me. These ran the gamut from talentless hack to brilliant artist with a great sense of humor. The only thing they could agree on was that I have superior spelling.

Still, I think it would have blown over and been forgotten by the next con if it hadn’t been for what Laurel did next.

Apparently, she decided that she wasn’t stirring up enough shit with my tame little piece of fluff, so she went and located the zine with the most explicit, sweaty art she could find on short notice (and with no dealers willing to sell smut directly to her) — Dr. Lazarus lying behind Taggart, apparently fucking him while giving him a reach-around with one hand and pulling his hair with the other. She cornered Jason Nesmith as he was leaving the signing table that evening, stuck it under his nose, and asked him what he thought of such things.

I only know what he said because there were a couple dozen people hanging around when she did this, so this is second-hand, but basically he said that he didn’t approve of making Taggart gay. Peter Quincy Taggart was obviously a red-blooded, masculine leader of men who wasn’t afraid of a fight and who clearly loved the ladies. He was fed up with so-called fans making him into a weepy homosexual to satisfy some sick fetish. He didn’t think that it belonged at Quest Con or that those who liked it were true fans.

Cece was standing right there when he said it. Reportedly, she simply turned around and walked away.

Mi-Na and I found her with Fred and Shondra on the roof. They were sitting in a row with their backs against the wall of the raised helipad.

“You okay?” I asked her, taking a seat on the other side of Fred.

“I’ve been better, but I’ll live,” she said. “You?”

“Ditto.”

Fred handed me a joint and I took it.

“It was just so out of left field,” said Cece. “I know he knew, but he never said anything about it before. It’s worse than when Elliot Spiegel said he disliked fanfic, especially the kind that…” She tucked her chin down and made her voice deeper, “’…speculate about romantic relationships that were never even hinted at in the script.’ And you just knew what kinds of relationships he was talking about.” said Cece. It was weird to see her like this. I’d seen her get angry on occasion, but I’d never seen her so resigned.

I blew out smoke and offered the joint to Mi-Na. She shook her head, so I handed it back to Fred.

“I don’t think Jason’s ever been very comfortable with it,” said Fred. “But he’s always wanted the fans to be happy.”

“Most of the fans aren’t very comfortable with slash, either,” said Shondra. “Now someone’s made him choose, and he went with what the majority want.”

“Could be,” said Cece. “He’s been trying to talk the committee into paying him for appearances. He says Quest Con isn’t just about supporting the show anymore. It’s become its own business. With his film career not going so well, maybe he didn’t want to alienate the more mainstream fans.”

“That sounds about right,” said Fred.

We were quiet for awhile, all of us lost in our own thoughts as we watched the lights of L.A. and passed the joint around.

“Did you hear that Alex defended you, Mary Sue?” asked Fred.

“No, I hadn’t,” I said.

“That woman took your fic to him at the signing. Same thing — ‘Have you seen this? What do you think of such filth?’ Alex just looked at her with an amount of superciliousness that only a classically trained British actor can muster and told her that he found your writing ‘delightful’ and your read of his character ‘sensitive and perceptive.’ Then he told her that Mak’Tar society was ‘not plagued with antiquated notions about gender and sexuality.’” Fred’s impression of Alex was so dead on that it made the rest of us giggle, even Mi-Na, who didn’t have the excuse of being high.

“Classic Alexander Dane,” said Cece.

“He’s a good egg,” said Fred. “An annoying egg sometimes, but he always comes through in the clinch.”

“Did he really read it?” I asked, slightly horrified.

“I gave him a heads-up about the whole kerfuffle,” said Cece, “including a xeroxed copy of the passages in question.”

“That’s like 200 words. Where’d he get ‘delightful and perceptive?’”

“From the depths of his inability to suffer fools,” said Fred.

“Maybe he secretly reads all of the fanfiction,” said Mi-Na, trying to get my goat.

“Mi-Na!” said Fred, pretending to just now notice that she was there. “It’s been forever. Mary Sue keeps telling us that you’re off doing exciting things. Did you really meet Carter?”

And we spent the rest of the evening talking about anything that wasn’t the Great Slash Backlash of ‘85.

But I bet you’re wondering what I could possibly have written that broke an entire fandom (however temporarily).

I don’t know if you’re ready for the controversial nature of this work.

Please take a moment to prepare yourself.

 

 

***

 

All You Have To Do is Fall in Love

By Thalia Z.

 

Rear Admiral Peter Quincy Taggart, the newly-minted head of Exploration for the Beta Sector, checked himself in his mirror for the eighth time this evening. He smoothed the jacket of his navy blue suit and adjusted the collar of the royal blue shirt underneath. He had considered wearing his dress uniform tonight — he certainly found it more comfortable than this thing — but he wanted to attend the opening as a representative of himself, not the NSEA.

And he had it on good authority that he looked dashing in a suit.

He checked his hair. He wore it shorter now, and a little greyer. His good authority had informed him that it looked distinguished.

But the question was, would _she_ like it?

Plenty of women had looked at Peter over the years with obvious appreciation, but the one who had mattered most had always observed the strict decorum she deemed appropriate in her relationship with the commander of the _Protector_. She had been polite, brisk, and except for one memorable occasion, distant.

But their days on the _Protector_ were far behind them both now. He was serving the NSEA from an office in The Hague, and she was a successful artist — her paintings hanging in galleries on twenty different planets.

Peter thought of that long-ago night, when they had been trapped together on the eighth moon of Sendar. Not wanting to be separated from her, (She was under his protection, after all.) he had told the Sendarii that they were married.

It had earned them a shared jail cell — and a small, lumpy bed. They couldn’t even fit on it side-by-side, so Peter had put his arm around her, let her lay her head on his chest, her arm across his waist. He could smell her hair. She used something on it that smelled like lilacs.

They were his favorite flower.

He could feel how tense and afraid she was. It surprised him. He had always thought of her as such a calm and collected person — self-possessed, poised. And he supposed that if they weren’t touching, she would still seem utterly composed. But he was touching her and he could feel how rigid the muscles were in her neck and back.

“We’re going to get out of this,” he told her.

He heard her swallow, felt the tiniest tremor against his body. “I believe you,” she said, her muscles losing a fraction of their stiffness.

“Good.”

“Because you never give up, never leave anyone behind,” she said. “I remind myself of that whenever we get into sticky situations — Peter’s in charge, and he never gives up.”

She had never called him by his first name. It stole his breath a little to learn that she sometimes thought of him as Peter, rather than Cmdr. Taggart.

“I — uhm — I admire your courage too,” he said.

As confessions go, this one was woefully inadequate. It didn’t convey even a tenth of what he felt for her — the admiration, the esteem, the affection.

But tomorrow — when Lazarus had stormed their prison from the outside while they battled their way from within, or when Chen had simply managed to lock onto them with the Digital Conveyor and transfer them out of there — they would have to go back to their strictly professional relationship and forget the night they had spent in each others’ arms. It was for the best that they not have too much to forget.

And yet, here he was, ten years later, and he still remembered all of it as if it had happened last night — the smell of her hair, the warmth of her body, and the softness of her voice had never really left him.

And now he was free to pursue his feelings for her, and she was free as well — provided she still had feelings, or had ever had feelings for him.

He smoothed his jacket again, and adjusted his collar for the two dozenth time. It was a relief when his communicator finally chimed. His transport was here.

Peter was restless on the ride to the gallery. The trip seemed to take forever, but on the other hand he dreaded arriving. He wondered when he had ever felt so nervous about the possibility of a romance.

The answer, of course, was the last time he had felt so deeply about a woman. In other words — never.

There was a time when he was younger when it had seemed foolish and excessive to think of love as anything other than a relaxing diversion — an amusement. But that had changed during his years commanding the _Protector_. He’d learned to love seriously as he’d come to understand his responsibilities to his ship and crew. He’d learned to love steadfastly as he’d gained the hard-won trust and friendship of Dr. Lazarus. And he’d learned to love unselfishly from watching _her._

He had been so used to loving her without having her that he’d required both Chen and Lazarus to set him on tonight’s course.

Soon after receiving his promotion, he’d visited them on New Tev’Meck.

Like most of New Tev’Meck, the cluster that Chen and Lazarus shared with Sha’ree’s family was swarming with children. It was amusing to watch. Chen was, of course, an incredibly patient father, always ready to fix broken toys, scraped knees, and hurt feelings. Lazarus pretended to be the disciplinarian of the family, but it was obvious no one believed him. Peter was sure that the kids only obeyed him out of indulgence.

It was during a rare quiet night, when all of the children had actually gone to bed without endless requests for glasses of water and just one more bedtime story, while they were sitting in the courtyard, that Chen had leaned across the table and said, “So, what about you? What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

Peter frowned. “Like I said, I’ll be the head of Exploration for the Beta Sector — a big picture guy, sitting behind a desk, making the people who actually run the spaceships go a little nutty with my arbitrary demands.”

Chen smiled at the joke, but said, “Not what I meant. You know you can tell her now, if you want that.”

Peter had forgotten just how observant Chen was. Of course it hadn’t slipped past him. Peter looked down at his lap for a moment, trying to think of an answer to that.

“I doubt she feels the same way about me,” he said, surprising himself. It had been on the tip of his tongue to simply pretend that he didn’t know what Chen was talking about.

“There’s one good way to find out,” said Chen. “And I’m pretty sure she did feel that way once.”

And Chen’s “pretty sure” tended to be worth ten “absolutely positives” from anyone else.

“Vincent is right, Peter,” said Lazarus. “What you stand to gain is worth the risk. Finding your love either requited or unrequited is better than spending the remainder of your life in suspense.”

“No matter how romantic it is to just keep pining,” added Chen.

He wasn’t sure that he was ready to give up the simplicity of just wanting her.

And yet…

He thought about the sheer comfort of that night on the Sendaran moon — her warmth and weight, her arm half-encircling his waist. It had been a bit sexually exciting too, of course, but it was the sense of tenderness and well-being that had stuck with him.

Lazarus had once told him, in a rare fit of confession, that the biggest change being married to Chen had brought about in his life was the comfort of knowing that no matter how stressed or exhausted or frightened he might get, eventually there would be bed and Vincent. And while Lazarus was painfully aware that something could come and take that away at any moment, that something would never be Vincent himself.

And sitting in a courtyard, in the soft darkness of the New Tev’Meck night, watching the stars and listening to the chirp and buzz of insects and the quiet voices of his friends, Peter thought that some things are worth working for.

So here he was, speeding through Belgium on his way to Lille where he would hopefully not make too much of an ass of himself.

He had never been to an artist’s opening before. He’d never been to a gallery before. He’d been dragged through a museum or two back when his mom had been hell-bent on making sure he got some culture, but museums are for everyone, even the kid of an Iowa corn farmer who’d rather be flying loop-de-loops in the crop dusting pod than looking at the Impressionists.

Galleries were for aficionados, mavens, people who used words like “aficionado” and “maven.” He was beginning to rethink having worn something that blended in with the crowd.

Perhaps if he had opted to wear his uniform, the elegant woman in the long, dark purple dress might not have asked him if he found the painting he was looking at “evocative of both Sufi calligraphy and the brushwork of Van Gogh?”

“Uhm… Sure,” he said. “Now that you mention it.”

She laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ What do you think of it then? You’ve been captivated by it, obviously.”

“It reminds me of the village dances on Meloaa II,” he said, because that was what the painting depicted — the swirling skirts, the long flying silk sashes with symbols gracefully written on them, and the bright glow of the moon augmented by the twinkling lights of a thousand tiny lamps. The painting was all oranges blending into pinks blending into purples with bits of script picked out in gold.

“Oh? You’ve been there?” she asked.

“Yeah. Meloaa II only gets three full moons a year, and when they do, everyone puts on these huge hoop skirts and dances in the center of town. They wear long sashes over the skirts that have all of their family affiliations written on them. In the old days, it was believed that the dances would bring luck and prosperity to your family. These days, I think it’s more of an excuse to party.”

He remembered standing on the roof of their guest house, watching the dancers fill the streets. The Meloaan moon shone fat and round in the sky, and there were tiny diode lamps set in niches in the walls of the buildings. He imagined that, hundreds of years ago, when the first houses were built here, the niches had held candles or oil lamps. Musicians circulated around the square, somehow managing to keep in sync with each other despite being scattered throughout the crowd. The music started slow and deep, driven by huge drums set near the entrances of the side streets off the square. Slowly, the dancers swirled and circled each other. It was almost stately, but even from the roof, Peter could feel the tension of the Melloaans being held in check. Gradually, the music built in both volume and tempo, high-pitched strings and flutes joining in while the dancers circled and spun faster and faster. From above, they could clearly see the intricate pattern of the dance. That was the point — the dance had originally been meant to please the moon with its beauty. The Meloaans didn’t rehearse this dance beyond teaching the youngsters the basic steps. Yet somehow, they never faltered or ran into each other.

Finally, after about twenty minutes, the dance came to an end — both the dancers and the drums coming to an abrupt halt. The dancers sat on the pavement, their skirts ballooning around them like parachutes, and caught their breath.

He was suddenly aware that she was standing near him, eyes wide, lips parted — her own breathing was faster than normal as she drank in the sight of the dance and its aftermath.

“That was amazing!” said Gwen.

“How’d they do that, Mom?” asked Laredo.

“You got me,” Zara replied. “But it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“The Meloaans have a sense they call _pache_ ,” said Lazarus, ever ready to give a biology lesson, especially when one had actually been requested. “It allows them to always know where they are in relation to each other. That, combined with the music, keeps them following their chosen place in the dance.”

“Looks like it’s drinking time,” said Chen, pointing to a side street where a couple of Meloaans were rolling out a large cask of the local brandy. The landing party had been invited to join them for this part of the celebration.

He had just hoped that the good relations they were building would turn out to be worth the inevitable hangover.

“It _was_ quite the party.” Her voice broke into his reverie. He hadn’t even seen her approach, although she was hard to miss in that dress. It appeared to basically consist of a long piece of orange and gold silk wrapped around her body like a very fancy bath towel and cinched below her breasts with a gold belt. It was a far cry from the grey jumpsuit she’d worn on the _Protector_.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She outshone his memory of her like the sun outshines a light panel.

“Zara,” he said. “I mean, uhm, Ms. Laredo. I…”

“Zara’s fine,” she said, smiling. “I don’t think we’re required to keep things quite so formal as we used to, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t,” he said, returning her smile. “Please, call me Peter.”

“It would be my pleasure, Peter.”

“So, you’re Commander Taggart?” said the woman in the purple dress. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

She had? Did Zara talk about him?

“It’s Admiral Taggart now,” said Zara. “Peter, this is Amelia Lang. She’s been my best friend since our college days.”

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said, shaking the hand she offered.

“I feel like we’ve already met,” said Amelia. “Danny’s told me so many stories.”

Peter felt a twinge of disappointment. Of course Dan Laredo would tell his Auntie about his adventures as a pilot, and many of those adventures included his C.O.

“He’s an exceptional young man and a gifted pilot,” said Peter.

Zara’s smile widened at that. “Look, I’ve got to circulate for another hour or so. Will you be around later?”

“I can be.”

“Great. I’d love to catch up. I’ll see you then.” She touched his arm briefly before joining a group of people looking at another canvas.

“Come on,” said Amelia. “I’ll be your audience and you can tell me the stories behind all of the paintings.”

Telling amusing stories about his adventures was one of Peter’s specialties, and Amelia seemed to genuinely appreciate his anecdotes, but each painting brought back more and more memories like the first.

“An Oasis in the Sands of the Great Northern Isle on Gdonk” — The ladies-in-waiting of the Gdonkian Princess, Tangor, rest in the shade of dark red blood palms. They smile seductively at a nearby group of soldiers, but the soldiers don’t smile back. Gdonkian noblewomen consume their mates as soon as they’ve been impregnated. They believe it strengthens the fetus. It certainly simplifies the transfer of wealth and power between generations.

When it had looked as if Peter would become Tangor’s latest husband/victim during the negotiations with the Ssazzbatts, Zara had been the one to buy them more time by offering to paint the portrait of Tangor’s favorite _jorbit_.

“The Return of the Orphans of Targathia” — Adult Targathians were being reunited with the children that had been taken from their creches by Meechan invaders and sold to the energy beings of Porais IV. In the foreground, a Targathian casts off xyr purple mourning veil as xe embraces two small children who wrap their four tiny arms around xyr neck and waist.

It had been an exhausting mission. Between holding Dr. Lazarus’s battle rage in check and trying to locate the children and taking care of an extra 72 passengers once they were located, everyone on the _Protector_ was on the verge of collapse by the time they reached Targathia. The Pora, upon discovering that their beloved new charges were not actually unwanted orphans, willingly returned the children to their parents. The Pora never again sought to bring corporeal beings to their planet, choosing instead to die when the machines that maintained them would begin to fail. The last he’d heard, a group of the “orphans” and their parents, remembering the kindness of the Pora and their sorrow over having hurt the Targathians, return to Porais IV every year to check and repair their machines.

“A Shelter is Prepared on D’Kerivan” — a giant lavender mushroom with a short, fat stem and green speckles on its broad cap. Eight-legged mechanical worker drones swarm over it, carefully hollowing it out in the early hours just before dawn.

The work had to be completed before the sun breached the horizon because the sun of D’Kerivan is so hot that its people can’t be out in it for more than a few minutes each day, and the drone wranglers needed to halt work by then. The fungus required a full day of sunshine to dry completely. Zara had been charmed by both the mushroom houses and the little drones who made them.

“The Scythian Hall of the Ascended” — The Hall is so large that the far wall is barely visible in the distance. The nearer walls are painted with orgiastic scenes of sex and excess. Low tables sag under the weight of lovingly depicted food and wine and drugs, while all around are naked bodies seeking pleasure in every possible position and combination. Although the Hall itself is empty of people now, the short, heavy tables and brightly colored stacks of rolled-up arachnid silk mats speak of the fact that such scenes take place here regularly.

The only member of the crew apparently unmoved by his first sight of the Hall of the Ascended was Lazarus. Everyone else went blushy and goggle-eyed. More than a few of them giggled. Zara covered Laredo’s eyes.

“The Forest of Kreemor” — a giant canvas with shadowy vertical stripes of indigo and deep blue-green, dotted here and there with tiny turquoise lights and softly glowing bio-luminescent blobs. On Kreemor, the canopy of the world-forest blots out so much of the light coming from the local star that most of the animals of the forest floor glow in order to find each other.

The darkness under the trees was soft and quiet. It was surprisingly warm, an effect of the process of decay taking place just under the thick bed of fallen leaves. As soon as he had set foot here, Peter had known he had to show Zara this place.

As he stood in front of each painting, Peter was reminded over and over of the times he had been on hand when Zara first saw a new planet. He had arranged it as often as possible because watching her see these worlds was like watching a child open a present.

They had been the only gifts he could give her.

And now he was experiencing that thrill of seeing new worlds through her eyes all over again. He wasn’t only seeing Gdonk or Scythia or Meloaa. He was remembering how Zara had drunk those places in, the way that her eyes moved as she took in every detail, and the tears that had shone there as she watched the reunion on Targathia.

Finally, just when he though that he and Amelia had seen every painting, she asked him about a small picture that was hanging around a corner in an L-shaped room near the entrance to the gallery. Peter had missed it on his way in, but he recognized it immediately when Amelia pointed it out.

“A Cell in a Sendarii Prison” — It’s just a bed, narrow and shabby, with a thin, muddy-brown blanket. The imprint of two bodies can still be seen on it. One body curled in tight to the other.

Peter swallowed, tried to think of something to say. “Not everyone was happy to see us.”

In the morning, he and Zara had been taken to a courtroom where a tall Sendari informed them that their geld had been paid and their insult to the Sendarii people conditionally forgiven. They must depart immediately and never return. Their guard then took them to another room where Dr. Lazarus was waiting for them.

“It’s good to see you, Peter.” He nodded toward Zara. “Ms. Laredo.” She nodded back. “Apparently one of you touched a sacred relic. It required the last 14 hours and a kilo of platinum to negotiate your release.”

“A sacred relic?” asked Peter.

“An eating utensil belonging to their god-emperor.”

“The fork?” asked Zara. “It was on the floor. Someone could have stepped on it.”

“Yes, well. Be that as it may,” said Lazarus, “they have agreed to forgo the death penalty in return for Humans being banned from the entire Sendar system for the next 100 years.”

Zara turned ashen at the revelation that the Sendarii had considered killing them.

They had both been relieved to see the planet from the safety of the _Protector_ a short while later.

“How did you find that much platinum on such short notice?” asked Peter when he and Lazarus were alone in his office.

“The maintenance crew replaced 37 converter coils last week. Tech Sgt. Chen melted the spent coils along with a rather attractive bracelet belonging to Lt. Madison. She holds you personally responsible for either replacing it or reimbursing her 22 credits.”

“22 credits? For a platinum bracelet?”

“The workmanship was remarkable.”

They shared a little laugh over that. Then Lazarus said, “Peter, are you alright? You seem… subdued.”

“I’m fine,” said Peter.

“You’re certain?”

“Yeah. Look, the accommodations left a bit to be desired. I didn’t sleep great. Don’t worry, Doc. Eight hours of sack time and I’ll be my old self.”

“I’ll leave you to retire then,” said Lazarus, and he did just that.

And Peter had gone to bed alone with the memory of the scent of lilacs.

“Sorry,” said Peter, shaking his head and smiling at Amelia. “Let’s just say that in 78 Sendarii years we can try again, and thankfully, that duty will fall to someone other than me.”

Amelia laughed.

“Well, you two are having a good time I see,” said Zara, coming around the corner

“I’m having a wonderful time,” said Amelia.

“I wish you didn’t have to rush off, but you said earlier that you left Darell home with the kids.”

“Thanks for reminding me!” said Amelia. “There’ll be hell to pay if I’m not home in time to help put them to bed. Where’d I put my wrap?”

“It’s probably in the cloakroom,” said Zara. “Let me help you find it.”

“I’ll wait here,” said Peter, figuring they needed a moment to huddle.

“Okay,” said Zara, smiling warmly at him. “I’ll be right back.”

Peter watched them go. He had to admit, Amelia was a great wingwoman. At least, he hoped that’s what she was, because if that’s what she was, it meant that Zara might actually be interested.

He allowed the tiniest flame of hope to kindle in his mind.

When she didn’t skip out on him, he felt the flame flicker just a bit brighter.

Zara had her own wrap — a golden-brown velvet shawl — over her arm.

“Care to take a walk?” she asked. “There’s a beautiful night garden right next door.”

“I’d love to,” said Peter.

Zara threw the wrap over her bare shoulders, and Peter offered her his arm.

The garden really was beautiful. Peter thought it might be nice to come back some time when he could actually notice it.

Right now all he could notice was her hand on his arm and the smell of lilacs… and the fact that he had absolutely no idea what to do or say. Here they were, walking arm in arm in this ridiculously romantic setting, and he was absolutely tongue-tied.

Zara finally broke the silence. “I saw Tawny last week. She said you’d been at Alpha Station.”

“I, uh, I’ve been doing a little traveling. I wanted to see some of the old crew before I settle into my new job.” Crap! He didn’t want her to think this was just part of making the rounds of people he used to serve with, not that he’d exactly served with her — she was a civilian. Still, this was different. Of course, if he chickened out, maybe having her think that this had been nothing more than a friendly visit wouldn’t be so bad.

So much for never giving up and never surrendering.

“Have you been to New Tev’Meck as well?” she asked.

“Yeah, Chen and Lazarus and every other adult there have about a dozen kids each. They all roam around in packs, although I’ve heard rumors that some of them also go to school.”

She laughed. “They’re doing well then?”

“Chen’s in his element. Lazarus seems way more content than I thought he’d be, certainly more than _he_ thought he’d be.”

“I’ll bet they’re both excellent fathers.”

“They are,” he agreed.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Finally Peter asked, “Why did you paint the Sendarii prison?”

That’s it, Taggart, he thought. Take the bull by the horns. Or just poke at it a little with a very long stick.

“I painted the things that had stuck with me over the years — like the reunion on Targathia or walking into a room full of graphic depictions of sex while accompanied by the entire command crew and my eleven-year-old kid.”

“Or like almost dying for picking up a fork?” he asked.

“Or like spending the night in your arms,” she replied.

He stopped walking.

Breathe, he thought.

He turned toward her and looked at her face. She was watching him as his brain sputtered and finally caught.

“I— I’ve thought about it too,” he said, his mouth and throat so dry that it came out nearly a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried to make a little spit. “I… uhm…”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so flustered,” she said. “I’d think by now this sort of thing would come easy to you.”

“I’ve never done this before,” he said. “I’ve never tried to… convince a woman to love me.” That was something he’d just said aloud.

The look she gave him was incredulous. “You’ve never…”

He went on. “I’ve done it on accident a few times, but I’ve always been careful to… to be very clear that all I was looking for was to create some mutually pleasant memories. I’ve never… I’ve never wanted this with anyone else.”

“Love?” Now she seemed to be the one who couldn’t get her brain to work. “Me?”

“Yeah… Yes. I love you. I have for years.” If he was about to go down in flames, it might as well be for the whole truth.

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open, for what seemed like a few eternities. Then she raised herself up on her tip-toes, whispered, “Okay,” and kissed him.

Peter’s brain shorted again. Her mouth was… pressed against his… and he could taste the sweetness of the wine she had been drinking at the opening… and he thought, put your arms around her, stupid… so he did… and she sort of leaned in and melted there… and she was warm and soft and his arms fit perfectly in the curve of her waist… and her tongue was licking along the seam of his mouth, so he opened it… and… and… and…

When they both pulled back to breathe, he asked “Okay?”

She laughed. “Okay, I’ll let you convince me to love you. I really don’t think it’s going to be a difficult task.”

He was grinning like an idiot. He could feel it. He kissed her again.

When they caught their breath for a second time, she said, “I think it may be working already.”

 

 

***

 

 

Wild stuff, I know. It did go down in fandom legend as a lesson in why you don’t mix straight romance with slash. And it made me one of the most famous writers in the fandom for a hot minute.

And I really did think that was that.

It wasn’t.

About a month after con, I got a notice from the official fan club that Cece had stepped down from the Quest Con Planning Committee. I had one month to place my vote for one of three candidates to replace her.

I called her immediately.

“I just couldn’t do it anymore, Mary Sue. I spent the last month arguing that slash really does have a place in the _Galaxy Quest_ fandom, no matter what Jason Nesmith says. I reminded them that both Fred and Alex supported us, and that Frank Ross has said he’s fine with it, AND that some of the oldest and hardest-working fans write and read slash, but they want an official ban on any depictions of homosexuality in the fan works.

“I’ve tried to come up with a compromise. I even offered to book a suite on my own dime to be used as a dealers’ room for slash — invite only — but they don’t like that either. Not that it probably won’t happen anyway, but they want to be able to claim that they don’t know anything about it. They want our money, but they want us to skulk around in the shadows.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t be getting our money, then,” I said.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” said Cece. “Right now, I’m considering canceling my reservation and staying home next year. Hell, there’s a part of me that wants to start over from scratch and do a rival con that welcomes all kinds of artworks, but I don’t think I have the heart to go to war over this.”

“Well, if you do, I’ll be there with bells on,” I said.

She didn’t, though. In fact, she continued to go to every Quest Con. She was the person you had to know if you wanted to be allowed into whatever suite was dealing slash. She was even reinstated on the Planning Committee a few years later, once the furor had sort of fizzled out. Cece said that she never saw Laurel at another Quest Con.

But that was much later. That summer, I was feeling pretty disillusioned with fandom.

What happened next with Margot was just the nail in the coffin.

August was nearly over, and I had landed a job maintaining the absolutely huge inventory of costumes owned by the local community theater. I had saved up enough money for first and last month’s rent, and I was looking for my first apartment.

That’s when I got the call from Cece.

“Mary Sue, are you still on the mailing list for _Vox_ _Galactica_?” _Vox_ _Galactica_ was a sort of early combination webzine/news ring. The organizers and some of the fans used it to keep each other up on what was going on in the _Galaxy Quest_ fandom.

“Yeah, why?”

“Have you seen Margot’s letter?” asked Cece.

“Margot has a letter in the _Vox_?” Yeah, I know. I’m very swift on the uptake. I’d sent a couple of letters to Margot over the summer, saying that I missed her and hoped she was feeling better. I hadn’t heard back, but had chalked it up to her not feeling well.

“She sent it to _GQN_ , but Sarah thought she’d better put it on the _Vox_ first. You should go read it,” said Cece.

So I did. 

 

> To my _Galaxy Quest_ friends and family:
> 
> As some of you know, I grew up in a devout Christian family, but when I left my family and home town behind for the wider world, I also left behind what I then thought of as their simplistic faith. In my blind rejection of the obligations and sacrifices that God lays upon His faithful I committed many sins during this time, but none weigh so heavily on my soul now as the sins of lust and pride. I allowed myself not only to revel in depictions of depravity and lasciviousness that are antithetical to the teachings of Our Savior, but in my pride I taught myself to find them beautiful. I became so sunk in this sin that I produced more of these works, and to my everlasting shame I encouraged others (even innocent young women whom ought to have been protected from such wickedness) to also produce them.
> 
> The wages of sin is death.
> 
> God has shown me this through the stroke that nearly claimed my life. He shows us all through this terrible plague that claims the lives of those who turn away from His plan and allow lust to rule their lives.
> 
> I have chosen to atone for the sinful manner in which I have used the gifts God has given me by henceforth dedicating them entirely to His praise and glory.
> 
> I urge you to do the same, or at the very least, to destroy any of the sinful works of my hand that you may have in your possession so that they can no longer be the means by which you stray.
> 
> Through the Mercy and Grace of God,
> 
> Margot Kellerman 

And _that_ is when I gafiated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A stock villain makes various statements voicing her disgust at the idea of guys getting it on with other guys. So basically, mean character is homophobic. Also, a sympathetic character decides to drop the _Galaxy Quest_ fandom in favor of the Jesus fandom.
> 
> Songs!  
> Queen -- [Play the Game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_5O-nUiZ_0) \-- This is the song that the fic title references of course. I had to get at least one Queen song in.
> 
> Wang Chung -- [Dance Hall Days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-xpJRwIA-Q) \-- I got nothing but the incredibly thin excuse that this song is on the soundtrack for _Bachelor Party_. Also, it's just very Eighties, you know?


	7. Mary Sue's Third Time Trip -- 1983

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which history is changed for the angstier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My last longfic turned out a little angsty," I said.  
> "The next one will be _light-hearted_ ," I said.  
> Then I did this.
> 
> So -- references to past domestic abuse and gender-based slurs in this chapter. The AIDS crisis will be discussed again.

“Mary Sue, are you okay?”

Mi-Na is sitting on my side of the booth with her arm around me. Slowly, I take my head off the table and straighten up.

Nothing that has happened in the last minute is possible. I am not a fanfic writer and baker with three boyfriends. I am a very recently-divorced former bridal shop salesperson on a girls-only vacation in Reno with my best friend. I’ve been playing slots and visiting the Automobile Museum.

I have not been _time traveling_.

But there’s a very real knapsack in my lap that says I have.

“I have a knapsack,” I tell Mi-Na.

“You two okay?” The waitress has come by with our orders. She sets a cheeseburger down in front of me and a club sandwich in front of Mi-Na.

“Fine,” answers Mi-Na. “My friend just had a little dizzy spell is all.”

“I’m alright now,” I assure her.

I am anything but alright, and I think the waitress would agree with that assessment. She nods dubiously.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she says as she heads back to the kitchen.

Mi-Na waits until she’s out of earshot. “How do you have a knapsack? Was it in the seat?”

I giggle a little hysterically and shake my head. I open the knapsack and start rifling through it. There’s a brand-spanking-new Palm PDA with accessories, a couple changes of cotton underwear (same size and brand I wear), a sewing kit in an Altoids tin (a twin of the one in my purse), a weird rubber thingie in a drawstring bag…

“What’s that?” asks Mi-Na.

It takes me a minute.

“Menstrual cup,” I say.

“Ew, Mary Sue! This is why you don’t rummage around in strange bags!”

I decide not to show her the vibrator. I just dig down to the bottom and feel around the seams until I find one that has Velcro on it. I open it, and grab the stack of bills. I pull it up just enough to ascertain that it is, indeed, a stack of twenties, then I shove it back down and pinch the Velcro shut.

All my life I’ve been making up crazy stories in my head. There was a time when I even wrote them down. But this is the craziest one by far, and every detail just jumped into my brain like some Philip K. Dick shit.

And it came with props, also like some Philip K. Dick shit.

Mi-Na is still looking at me like she expects me to grow antlers or something.

“I think I’ve really fucked up.”

What’s real?

Kevin and the boring but expensive house that he got in the divorce?

The bridal shop, which I quit working at because I don’t want to stay in the same town with him?  Because just seeing him makes me want to curl in on myself and disappear.

All the clothes I donated to Saint Vinnie’s because I hated them and I’ve always hated them?

The Miata that I sold?

The knick-knacks and books and photos that I left behind on the shelves of the house that's no longer mine?

The five boxes of things I actually wanted to keep — my old zines, some CD’s, some science fiction and fantasy paperbacks, and my laptop?

The cash I agreed to take instead of the house?

An old photo of me and Mi-Na (back when she was still called Connie) and some very nice ladies we met at Quest Con, taken by Fred Kwan?

What’s not real? The job I don’t have at the bakery in Kalamazoo. My tiny attic apartment stuffed with books and albums and candles and zines.

Sean, with his red hair and sly smile. Gunner, with his easy laughter and surprising insights.

Trent, who was my constant companion for more than four years before he started to slowly pull away from me.

My closet full of thrift store clothes and clearance sale finds.

My 1987 Lincoln Town Car.

My cat, a male calico named Lola.

My custom photo frame with five pictures from Quest Cons through the years.

What years? The last Quest Con was number three in 1982. I smoked pot on the roof with Cece Fleischer and Fred Kwan.

Fred Kwan.

“I need to make a call,” I tell Mi-Na.

“Who, for God’s sake?”

“Fred Kwan,” I say.

“Fred Kwan? The actor?”

“That’s the one,” I say, digging through my purse for my Nokia.

First I call information and get the number of the hotel. Then I call the hotel and ask for room (it takes me a second to remember) 2608.

It rings.

I hold my breath.

“Hello?” says a familiar voice. Okay, maybe not _familiar_ , but certainly one I recognize.

I swallow. “Fred?” I ask.

“Mary Sue!” There’s no mistaking the relief in his voice. “You’re… you’re okay? Where are you?”

“Reno,” I say. “Is Laliari there?” I need to see if she’s real.

“Laliari? Yeah. You wanna talk to her?”

“May I?”

“Of course.”

I hear a little distant conversation. Then, “Mary Sue. You are coming back?”

“Hey Laliari, I… Yeah, I am.”

“We need you. You must travel through the time jump Accelerator again,” she says, her voice tinged with sympathetic regret.

I close my eyes. If this is psychosis, it’s very detailed psychosis.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

Convincing Mi-Na isn’t easy, but the rental car’s in her name. Plus I hate driving and I’m not sure I wouldn’t get lost trying to find the hotel.

“I don’t get why finding a knapsack and knowing where some actor is staying means that we have to drive to L.A,” she says.

She’s moved back to the other side of the table.

“It’s a really long story and the more I try to explain, the more you’ll think that I’ve lost it,” I reply.

I’m tired. We’ve been doing touristy crap all day. I haven’t slept well in forever. I’m basically trying not to cry while I stare at my cheeseburger and try to figure out the best way to get to L.A.

I mean, the best way is for me and Mi-Na to go get in our rented Intrepid and drive directly there.

I’m trying to figure out the second best way.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mary Sue. Quit sitting there looking like you’re going to cry. Eat your cheeseburger, and we’ll go. You can explain to me all the stuff that’s going to convince me that you’ve lost touch with reality on the way there.”

We stop at our hotel first and check out. I don’t want to — it adds an hour onto the trip — but Mi-Na insists. “If you think I’m paying 85 bucks to keep our luggage in a room we’re not even staying in, you _are_ delusional.”

We’re splitting the cost of this vacation down the middle, but I’m not going to argue. I don’t think she wants to spend $42.50 either.

And I probably will need some clothes.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that I don’t know how much time I have.”

I must really look as scared as I feel, because she squeezes my hand and says, “You’re going to have to do some of the driving.”

“You get us out of town, and I’ll do as much of the highway as I can,” I say.

Mi-Na ends up driving us all the way to the California border and then some, listening to me explain that I’ve been time-traveling and that somehow, my timeline has become fucked up, thereby fucking my life up as well.

“Let me get this straight,” says Mi-Na. “You were sent back in time by Fred Kwan and his alien girlfriend to work on the show, _Galaxy Quest..._ twice?”

“Yes.”

“Because some other alien is trying to stop the girlfriend’s people from building a working copy of the spaceship from the show?”

“The _Protector_ , yes.”

“And now the other alien has not only managed to keep them from doing that, but he’s also completely changed your whole entire life?”

“Not my whole _entire_ life, just my life since about 1983 on,” I say.

“And you’ve got to meet Fred Kwan and his alien girlfriend at a hotel in L.A. so that they can send you back a third time and you can fix _Galaxy Quest_ and hopefully make your life… okay again?”

“I mean, that about sums it up, yeah.”

“Mary Sue, are you sure this isn’t just… you not knowing what direction your life is going in right now — or, you know, wanting to erase Kevin?”

“No. I’m not sure,” I say. I think about the Thermians, only one of whom I’ve ever met. Except, I haven’t met Laliari. I’ve never traveled in time. I haven’t seen Fred since 1982. I’ve never met Frank or Elliot or Gwen… or Alex. I remember them like a movie I once saw, not like people I know.

But I have a knapsack. I’ve talked to Fred on the phone. And when I move, I have that recently-well-fucked feeling despite the fact that I haven’t had sex in over three months.

In fact, I haven’t had the kind of sex that leaves your quim humming in over a decade.

I flip down the visor and look in the mirror. It’s dark in the car, but when I pull aside the neck of my t-shirt, I can see the dark purple mark that Alex Dane left on my shoulder.

“Is that a hickey?!” says Mi-Na.

I laugh just a little maniacally. “Look, when we get to the hotel, we’ll either meet Fred Kwan and he’ll confirm what I’ve told you, or we won’t and you can do whatever you think is best with my delusional ass.”

“Mary Sue…”

“I mean it, Mi-Na. If I’ve just concocted some whole fantasy history complete with auditory hallucinations and psychosomatic love bites, because I found a knapsack, I want you to make sure I get help.”

“It wasn’t a hallucination. I heard Fred Kwan too. Or…”

“Or you heard somebody claiming to be Fred Kwan.”

“Yeah. The point is, I heard someone. Whatever’s happening, you’re not making it _all_ up.”

“I need to know,” I say.

She sighs. “Okay. Get some sleep, Mary Sue. I’ll wake you when it’s your turn to drive.”

Surprisingly, I do actually sleep — for about three hours according to the dashboard clock. We’ve stopped for gas. I go use their restroom, then buy a Cherry Coke to keep me awake and a large Pringles to keep me from having to pee again in half an hour. Back in the car, I take the driver’s seat and slip a cassette of the soundtrack from _The Commitments_ into the tape deck.

“You gonna be able to sleep if I play music?” I ask. You gonna be able to sleep with a crazy person at the wheel?

“Yeah, I’m tired enough to sleep through anything,” she says. “Wake me up when we get close, and I’ll do the city driving, okay?”

“’Kay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, pulling her jacket out of the back seat and draping it over her torso.

It’s about four-thirty when we switch off again at a truck stop near L.A. I got tired of The Commitments hours ago and have since been through Willie Nelson’s _Teatro_ a few times and am on to the soundtrack from _The Big Lebowski_.

And of course, I’ve been thinking — comparing what my life has become to this other life I now half remember. Honestly, it was bad enough — the loveless marriage, the anxiety of always trying to fit into roles I wasn’t suited for, the endless bad outcomes despite having made the "right" decisions — without knowing that I would have been happier if I’d shown a little less common sense and listened to my gut more.

On the other hand, would that pokey apartment, and boring job, and three low-key relationships look so good if they were more real to me? If they were just a delusion, wouldn’t I have come up with something better?

Something like — I don’t know — a job in television, a heroic calling, and an affair with Alexander “Voice-of-Pure-Goddamn-Sex” Dane?

I haven’t figured out a damned thing by the time we get to the hotel about fifty minutes later.

I dig out my phone again and call up to the room.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Fred. We’re here. Can you meet us in the lobby?” I haven’t got a key and I have no idea who the room is registered to. Also, in my current mental state, I’m willing to entertain the possibility that this is some elaborate scheme to abduct and murder me by impersonating the guy who played Tech Sgt. Chen on a twenty-year-old TV show. Because when all of your possible explanations are equally impossible, you’ll entertain anything.

Mi-Na and I watch the elevators silently. There’s the ding and the light comes on. The door slides open, and Fred Kwan ( _the_ Fred Kwan) is standing there, wearing jeans and a lightweight olive sweater and looking very tired and anxious.

His face lights up at the sight of us. He does something he’s only done very rarely, and never right out in the lobby of a hotel — he hugs me. Actually, he’s never hugged me, and it’s a little weird. He’s hugged _her_ — the other me he remembers — but to this me, it’s new.

He notices Mi-Na and holds out his hand, smiling. “Hi, Mi-Na.”

“Hi,” she says, slowly putting her hand in his and giving it a little shake. I think she’s still in shock that we’ve driven ten and a half hours to see Fred Kwan, only to actually find Fred Kwan. It doesn’t even register to her that he recognizes her and that he knows her name. In this timeline, he should still think of her as Connie.

“Come on,” he says. “We’d better talk upstairs.”

On the elevator ride up, Fred turns to me and says, “When you disappeared, and all of your stuff disappeared, I thought you might have died. I thought maybe he found a way to kill you in the past.”

I barely know Fred, but I’m his friend, and somewhere in the last ten hours, it has no doubt occurred to him that what he briefly thought might have happened to me, will definitely happen to Laliari if I fail.

“I’m okay, Fred,” I say. “Everything’s going to be okay.” For all of us. I hope.

In the hotel room, Laliari glomps me again, for the first time.

She smiles and introduces herself to Mi-Na, who shakes her hand.

“Okay,” says Fred, once we’ve all settled into chairs. “Any idea what’s happened? The only convention here right now is for people who are really into growing hostas. Laliari’s been searching the web, but there’s no mention of Quest Con at all.”

“There were only three Quest Cons,” I tell him.

“What?”

“Something happened to prevent the fourth one. I remember that I was planning on going. I had a plane ticket, a reservation at the hotel, and I’d prepaid my pass. It was canceled about a week before due to the hotel suddenly needing repairs.”

“Wait, why would that con getting canceled mean that they never had another one?” asks Mi-Na.

“Quest Con 4 was all about getting _Galaxy Quest_ into syndication,” I say. “There were panels on organizing letter-writing campaigns, holding rallies, lots of cheerleading. All of the stars were there. Over 300 people left that con fired up and ready to do battle all over the country. When it never happened in this timeline, the show never got syndicated. There were no reruns, no new fans. The fandom just fizzled.”

“And without syndication, it was never aired on the station whose signal the Thermians picked up,” says Fred.

“When I contacted Thermia, they had never heard of the _Protector_ ," says Laliari.

“That’s what I need to fix, then. Quest Con 4 has to happen,” I say. “I wish we had more information to go on.”

Laliari picks up her PDA and starts tapping at it. “The archives for the L.A. Times do not extend back that far,” she says.

“Cece might remember,” says Fred.

“I suppose I could call her,” I say. “I doubt she’d remember me, though, or be too happy at getting a phone call at six a.m.”

Laliari looks up from her PDA. “Cecelia Fleischer lives in Atlanta, Georgia. It is eight o’clock there.” She shows me the number. I take a minute to make up a cover story, then I punch it into my phone before I can change my mind. I hate making phone calls.

It rings.

“Hello?” Cautious, the voice of a woman who doesn’t recognize the number on the caller I.D.

“Cece?” I say. “My name is Mary Sue Va— uh, Forrester. You probably don’t remember me.”

“Mary Sue! Of course I do! We used to get together at the old _Galaxy Quest_ conventions. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

“Great! But I’m betting you didn’t call me up after — what? Fifteen years? — just to catch up.”

“No,” I admit. “I didn’t. I do some freelance writing these days, and I’m doing a piece on shows that are still remembered fondly in geek circles, but which never really got embraced by the mainstream.”

She laughs. “Well, that’s certainly _Galaxy Quest_. Do you remember Shondra Law? I was talking to her just last month about how great that show was.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I remember Shondra, and her…uh… imaginative drawings of Dr. Lazarus.”

“Oh yeah! ‘Imaginative’s’ certainly the word for it.” Cece laughs again.

“Anyway, I was wondering what happened to Quest Con 4? I remember it being canceled at the last minute, and there was some talk about having something later, but it never seemed to pan out.”

“I couldn’t get the manager to tell me much — just that there was a small fire in one of the ballrooms and the fire department had declared the building unsafe until repairs could be made. He was definitely hiding something. I found out later that the entire sprinkler system was faulty. Anyway, it was too late to relocate the con, and every time I tried to get another one going, there was just less and less interest. Everyone had moved on to something else.”

“It’s too bad. It was a great party,” I say.

“Yeah it was. But hey, maybe with the DVD set coming out, some more people will discover the show. I’m always holding out hope.”

“That’d be awesome,” I say.

“It would,” agrees Cece. “Listen, I could seriously talk about this stuff all day, but I’ve gotta run. I have a horse-back riding lesson. I’m free this afternoon though. Can I call you back?”

“Sure,” I say. “You have my number now.”

“Cool! Talk to you later!”

“Absolutely, Cece. Thanks for everything.”

I tell the others what Cece has told me.

“It seems like a really indirect way to go about keeping the show out of syndication,” says Fred.

“He may be just throwing stuff at the wall — hoping something will stick,” I say. “I don’t think he has anything to lose by this point. This is Gath’gor’s third attempt — or at least the third that’s done anything — and it’s happening after the other two. I think that he might be stuck back there — forced to move through time the old-fashioned way because I keep thwarting him.”

“Or because he’s breaking the timeline, like The Cossack,” says Mi-Na. We all look at her blankly.

“The _United Defenders of America_ crossover?” she says.

“I never watched it,” I say.

“Me neither,” says Fred.

“Okay, I guess not everyone was as into the Davison twins as I was,” she says. “That’s probably why it only lasted a season. Anyway, Lieutenant Liberty and the Shield Maidens defeated this Russian villain called The Cossack back in the Sixties, but his wife was caught in the crossfire and died. Now he’s escaped from the prison island where they were keeping him and he breaks into the _Time Tripper_ lab and uses the Accelerator to go back and save her. He does, but he doesn’t zap back to his own time, and he figures it’s because he didn’t go back to fix anything — that saving his wife broke a timeline instead. He decides that it’s enough to have saved her, even if he can’t be with her. Then she dies a week later when she’s hit by a car because it was, you know, _her time_ , and The Cossack just has to live the same twenty years over again.”

“I can’t imagine why audiences didn’t go for that level of tragedy,” I say. “So if the Accelerator works like it did in _Defenders_ , Gath’gor has no way of ever knowing if he’s succeeded. He may just assume that, if he doesn’t get recalled to his own time, he’s failed. And he just keeps trying, getting more and more desperate. He may be running out of resources too.”

It also occurs to me that, if he’s figured out who I am, my presence would signify a successful attempt. I shake my head. Trying to figure out Gath’gors motivations and state of mind aren’t getting the immediate problem solved.

“Okay, what do we know about that building?” I ask.

“It was called the Golden State Hotel. Quest Cons 3 and 4 were held there,” says Fred. “After that, the con moved to a larger hotel downtown until the early Nineties, when it moved out to the suburbs. The building was demolished in ‘85 or ‘86 to make way for something newer and bigger.”

It’s not a lot to go on.

We spend the next hour or so getting ready. Laliari and Fred try to dig up more info on the Golden State Hotel. Mi-Na and I go get my suitcase and haul it up to the room. I repack the knapsack. Or try to.

“What did we wear in 1983?” I ask.

“I remember lots of acrylic sweaters,” says Mi-Na.

I shudder.

As I look at the suitcase full of clothes I’ve been collecting since I left Michigan, I realize that I’ve been re-creating the same wardrobe the other me wears — strappy slip dresses and fitted t-shirts, long skirts and little tank tops. My only nod to my advanced age is that I also have a number of long, summer-weight cardigans that I wear on top of these.

“When did Flashdance come out?” I ask.

Fred pokes at Laliari’s PDA. “April of ‘83,” he says.

I take a couple of over-sized tees that I bought to sleep in and, using the seam ripper in my sewing kit, I cut the necks off. I head into the bathroom to change.

Somebody has cut my pubes short. I think about it for a bit, then I realize, yeah, it was me. Well, it’s comfortable. Maybe I’m onto something.

I put one of the t-shirts over a plain short dress, and knot it just above my hip, letting it pull the neck down to show my unhickied shoulder. Product and my hair have never really gotten along, so I just put my hair back in barrettes and called it a day. I put on my black dress flats.

“Close enough?” I ask Mi-Na.

“Yeah,” she says. “And let’s face it. It’s hard to look weird in L.A.”

I dump out the knapsack (except for the money, which is still inside the lining.) and start putting the stuff back in it more neatly.

My ugly glasses didn’t survive the trip. They could still be sitting in Frank’s old office, for all I know. Laliari is painting some substance on my smaller, wire frame, 1999 glasses. They’re designer and conservative, of course, because Kevin paid for them. They were the closest things I could find to the ones Dana Scully wears.

“This won’t show you someone’s true form,” she says, “but it will disrupt the projection of an appearance generator enough that you will be able to tell when one is being used.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Mary Sue, the Thermians owe you a great debt,” she says.

“Not yet, they don’t,” I tell her. “You and Fred are still here.”

“You have succeeded twice. I am confident you will succeed again.”

Except I’m not the same Mary Sue this time. I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. I just need to focus on her and Fred and the other Thermians. I’ve always had more gumption when it comes to helping someone else.

I go back to my packing.

I see Mi-Na looking at the two condoms I still have. I start to set them aside. I’m not sure how I feel about carrying condoms around, like I’m looking for casual sex… or like I’m the sort of person someone might want to… you know, have casual sex with.

“Take them,” says Mi-Na, quietly.

I look at her.

“Is Mr. Love-Bite going to be there?” she asks.

“Yeah, probably.”

“A fling might be good for you.”

“It’s been two years for him. I doubt —”

“Of course you do. Take the condoms.”

It rubs me the wrong way, but it’s easier to pack them than to argue.

Fred and Laliari haven’t found out much about the Golden State Hotel. “It was built right after the war,” says Fred. “I don’t know why it was torn down. It wasn’t an attractive building, but it also wasn’t that old. The developer just thought he could do better.”

I nod. “Okay. I guess I’d better be going then.”

Laliari nods and steps over to the control panel. “For which date should I program the Accelerator?” she asks.

I bite my lip, trying decide, my mind running down every possible scenario.

Mi-Na rubs my arm. I know it’s meant to be encouraging, but the fact that I need encouragement is very discouraging.

I hug her. “Thanks,” I say. “It really means a lot to me that you brought me here, even though you must’ve thought I’d lost my grip on reality.”

“Hey, I’m always in your corner. You know that.”

I think it’s very sweet of her not to say that she’s still not sure that I haven’t lost my grip.

I look at Fred and Laliari. “May first?” I ask. “Gives me a month.”

Laliari nods and starts tapping on the Accelerator’s keypad.

I pick up the knapsack and sling it over my shoulder.

Laliari hands me my glasses, all dry now. I put them on, and I can see a sort of shimmery purple aura around her. It isn’t there when I look at the others.

“All set?” asks Fred.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer.

He nods and gives me a little smile. “Good luck, Mary Sue.”

I nod back at him and step into the Accelerator.

 

Much to my surprise, I end up in Frank’s living room.

Okay. At least I know a hawk from a handsaw. That’s a relief.

My first impression of Frank’s living room is that nobody’s home. It’s very, very quiet.

“Frank?” I call. “Leticia?”

I head into the kitchen. It’s too clean. I mean, Frank usually keeps it neat and orderly — it’s a tiny kitchen, and it would quickly become too messy to work in otherwise, but this is immaculate.

And there’s nothing in the fruit basket. I check the fridge. There’s none of the stuff that goes bad quickly, like milk or eggs — just foods that can last a few months like ketchup and jam.

Frank and Letitia are on vacation.

Okay. Well, I have no idea how to contact them, and I need a place to stay. The neighbor would probably have the police on me in no time. So…

Elliot.

I call him.

“Hi. You’ve reached Elliot Spiegel, please leave your name and number after the beep, and I’ll get back to you soon.”

“Hey Elliot,” I say. “This is Mary Sue. Surprise! Anyway, I’m at Frank’s. It’s about ten a.m. Could you call me here when you get this message?”

I suppose I could call Alex.

But I don’t.

Two days ago, I woke up at three o’clock in the morning. Mi-Na was in the other double bed in our hotel room. I couldn’t sleep, so I read for awhile.

But I have no trouble recalling the fact that, two days ago, I woke up at three, and Alex was there in the bed with me. And he showed me how he touches himself and he sucked a mark into the skin above my collarbone as he came in me.

And now it’s no more real to me than the plot of the book I read.

I feel like I know things about Alex that I shouldn’t. Like I spied on him while he shared something intimate with someone else.

I’ll call him if I have to, but for now I lie down on Frank’s sofa and wait for Elliot to get back to me soon.

That’s when it occurs to me that there’s a chance that no one here remembers me. In the timeline I just left, I’ve never time-tripped. Maybe, for the people here, in this past, it’s never happened either.

I’ve decided that I hate time-travel.

I hate that my head’s crammed with too much history, so full that I feel cut off from all of it. I hate being in this house, where everything is familiar but also not familiar, like going back to your old high school, except I left it yesterday.

It’s only been two months and one week since my lawyer called me to tell me that everything was set. She was ready with the paperwork. I moved out while Kevin was at work. It wasn’t difficult. Kevin detested clutter. He had forced me to throw out nearly everything I owned early on in our relationship — even my clothes and jewelry. _Especially_ my clothes and jewelry.

I simply called an acquaintance who worked for a charity thrift store and asked her to bring the van.

I put a few necessities in my car and drove to Mi-Na in Chicago. Almost everything I had wanted to keep had been shipped to her years ago anyway.

Before it had even occurred to me that time travel was a possibility, I had done my level best to reset the clock on my life to what it had been before I married a controlling asshole.

Finally, I give in to the fear and panic and loneliness and exhaustion and just cry, using up the box of tissues on Frank’s end table, until I fall asleep.

I wake up to the phone ringing. Before I can send myself into another tizzy over who might be on the other end, I pick it up.

“Hello?” I whisper, my throat all dry and weird after the sobbing. I clear it. “Hello.” It’s louder this time.

“Mary Sue?”

“Elliot?”

“Yeah. Is that really you? I didn’t think you’d be coming back!”

“You remember me?” I ask.

“It’s only been two years, Mary Sue. Of course I remember you.”

“Right.” Well, that’s a relief.

“What are you doing at Frank’s?” he asks.

“I have to materialize someplace. I figured he was used to it by now.”

“You just always show up at Frank’s?”

“Right in his living room,” I say. “By the way, where is Frank?”

“He and Letitia are visiting Machu Picchu.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, I’m leaving to come get you,” he says. “Sit tight. I’ll be there in less than twenty.”

“Thanks, Elliot. Right now, I literally don’t know what I’d do without you.”

After I get off the phone with Elliot, I grab the key to the guest house off its hook in the laundry room. I head over and let myself in. Is it wrong? Fucked if I know. I’m just wondering if I still have clothes here.

I don’t.

My knives and the pepper mill are still in the kitchen, and my albums are still on the shelves, but those are the only signs that I was here. All of my personal items have been cleared out of the bathrooms too.

Not that I blame anyone. It _has_ been two years.

Elliot drives up and gets out of his car just as I’m locking up the guest house. He’s still driving the Gremlin.

“Hey,” he says, just kind of looking at me with a stupid grin on his face.

“Hey,” I reply. I hold up the key. “Frank still keeps it in the same place. He kept some of my clothes last time and I…”

Elliot hugs me.

“Okay,” I say. It takes me a minute, but I relax into it. Elliot is a small boulder.

And I am eight kinds of touch-starved.

“Wow, you’re tense,” says Elliot. He stops hugging me, but he slides his hands down my upper arms, stopping at my elbows. “What’s happened?”

“Steve’s latest shenanigans have… hit close to home is all. And there are still lives at stake. I also haven’t eaten and I have one change of clothes and no place to stay. I mean, I can afford a hotel — but I have to get there. I could get a taxi —”

“Mary Sue.” Elliot interrupts my ramblings. “Let’s get lunch. Then we can go shopping. I have a guest bed you can sleep on. I didn’t get anything picked up this season, so I’m at your service.”

“Thanks, Elliot.”

After I lock up the main house, we go to some restaurant with approximately 500 cuckoo clocks. There are orange rolls, for which I’m grateful because, dear lord, do I need sugar.

I also eat some sliced turkey and steamed asparagus. I’m not seven.

Over our late lunch, I explain to Elliot what’s going on — the fire (”Classic Steve,” says Elliot, rolling his eyes.), the subsequent cancellation of Quest Con 4, the syndication campaign that goes nowhere. I leave out the part about my memories being hazy or exactly why syndication is so important, and just stick to the main thing, which is that “Steve” is going to sabotage Quest Con 4, and that, in turn, will keep _Galaxy Quest_ from being syndicated. Elliot doesn’t require any explanation of why syndication is important. As the co-head writer, he gets residuals.

He is completely on board with doing whatever’s necessary.

“So what’s the plan?” asks Elliot. “Find Steve and stop him?”

“Maybe. If the Golden State Hotel is safe, then — yeah, we just need to stop him from sabotaging it. If it isn’t though — we may need to find a back-up location.”

“I think we should get Fred Kwan in on this,” says Elliot. “He doesn’t need to know that you’re a time traveler, but he’s friendly with most of the organizers. He could be a big help.”

“Alex is also friendly with some of them,” I say. “And I don’t have to convince him that he should fix a problem that I can’t explain exists.” I really don’t want to tell Elliot that I can’t talk to Fred or why. Nobody knows from how far in the future I’ve come, and I’d like to keep it that way. On the other hand, I really don’t know how I feel about seeing Alex.

But it looks like I won’t be able to avoid it.

I need to buck up here — channel that other Mary Sue who didn’t let life run her so far down that she’s virtually paralyzed. The Thermians need her.

“Anyway,” I say, changing the subject. “You promised me a shopping trip.”

So we hit a mall.

Holy cow, but I had forgotten how ugly the clothes were in 1983. Everything, and I mean _everything_ , had to have a skinny little belt tying it in the middle, and when you’re curvy and short like me, it’s a particularly awful look — like someone applied a tourniquet to your waist. The only other choice was no waist at all. And, of course, there were the shoulder pads. Whether they enhanced the garment or not, there had to be shoulder pads. My college years were so full of studying and desperate attempts to avoid skinny belts and shoulder pads — oh, and pastels — it’s no wonder I didn’t have time for weed.

And then I remember the white tights.

Okay, but I can’t really go around looking like I raided a fifteen-year-old’s closet, so I bite the bullet and buy three Laura Ashley knock-off skirts, and some blouses with three-quarter length kimono sleeves. I also buy a pair of brown boots so that I don’t have to wear tights, and some hats so that it’s not too apparent that I have a deep aversion to Aqua Net. I get one respectable, businessy-looking outfit — navy blue slacks and an ivory blouse. But other than that, I’m going with the Meg Tilly in _The Big Chill_ look. I brought plenty of underwear and bras, but I get some more socks and hair ties. I get a denim jacket because L.A. can be a bit cool at night.

“No pants?” asks Elliot.

I hold up the slacks.

“Jeans, then,” says Elliot. “In case you have work to do.”

I sigh. We head over to the work clothes section of the anchor store, and I manage to find some carpenter jeans. I buy a pair. There’s no way I’m trying to squeeze my ass into Eighties jeans. That shit was bad enough in my twenties. Everything was huge in 1983. Hell, it was perfectly acceptable for women to wear what was basically a maternity dress all the time. The only exception was the jeans, which were a special kind of hell from knee to belly button. The name “Gloria Vanderbilt” still makes my tail bone ache just thinking about it.

We stop off at a grocery store so I can get shampoo and whatnot. (Also — Huzzah! Body wash has been invented!)

Back at Elliot’s, we try to get a call through to Frank in Cuzco, but the manager of the hotel where they were staying tells us that he and Mrs. Ross checked out two nights ago.

Okay.

We order some Chinese food and brainstorm for a little while, trying to come up with a way to inspect the Golden State Hotel’s sprinkler system.

“It’s not like we can commit arson ourselves,” says Elliot.

“You can’t. I can.” I explain how I can’t directly harm anyone. “Even indirectly harming someone doesn’t work, unless it’s super indirect. It’s the “no-going-back-and-killing-Hitler” clause.”

“That’s why Steve’s fire won’t just destroy the building?”

“I think so. A fire would reveal if the system’s out of whack, though. There’s the chance that their maintenance people could get it fixed in time for the con, and if they can’t, it would at least give the organizers time to relocate.”

I realize I’m making an argument for indulging in some pyromania.

I start giggling. This is… I put my head down and just laugh some more.

“I’m sorry, Elliot,” I say, my forehead still resting on my folded arms. “I don’t remember how much sleep I’ve have in the last 32 hours, but it hasn’t been much — a couple of catnaps, maybe.” I sit up and look at him. “I might possibly come up with something better than random conflagrations if I could take a shower and pass out for eight or nine… or ten hours.”

“Okay, let me show you where the towels are,” says Elliot.

I sleep alright. I mean, I’m awake at three a.m., staring at the ceiling for an hour or so, as usual. But other than that, I do okay. No nightmares, anyway.

In the morning, over our Raisin Bran, I look at Elliot and say, “Fire inspections are public records. Let’s start there.”

“And here I was, all ready to commit a felony.”

“Hilarious,” I say. “Look, how often have you heard of a building that’s currently in use being declared unsafe? The inspector comes by periodically and looks everything over — says things like, ‘You can’t have a trash receptacle within eight feet of a fire exit,’ or whatever. If there’s something that can’t be fixed right that minute, the owner generally has thirty days to get it taken care of. If it’s something that can’t be done in a month, the owner files a plan for getting it done with the county or city or whoever has jurisdiction.”

“You know a curious amount about this,” says Elliot.

“I worked in a mall for awhile,” I say. “The inspector really liked talking about his job. The point is, they don’t shut down buildings unless it’s super serious or the owner’s not getting the problem fixed. That means there might be a clue as to what Steve’s planning in the inspection record.”

“Okay.”

So I get dressed and we head over to city hall, which is humongous. But surprisingly, we don’t have much hassle just viewing the inspection record. “Getting a certified copy though…” says the clerk. “That’s another story.”

I nod at her absently, already scanning the checklist.

“Found it,” says Elliot.

“Wait, what?”

He points to the bottom of the form, where the signatures of the inspector and the representative of the maintenance department are located. The maintenance guy’s name is Steve Gagorian.

“Well, fuck,” I whisper.

I hand the paper back to the clerk, thank her, and we leave.

“I can’t believe he’s still going by the same name,” says Elliot as we walk down the steps outside the building.

“No reason not to, I guess. He already had a forged I.D. and a work background under that name. All he had to do was spiff up his résumé, leaving off the part about getting fired from his gig at the studio, and he was good to go.”

“So we’ve found Steve. That’s step one completed. How do we stop him?”

“I’m going to get a job at the Golden State Hotel,” I say.

“You don’t even have a valid driver’s license,” he points out.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not trying for the head of security, Elliot. Housekeeping won’t ask too many questions.”

Guess what? Housekeeping doesn’t ask too many questions. My knees and back aren’t borked, so I’m already ahead of the game. Like any job that chews workers up and spits them out, it’s not hard to get once they realize you haven’t been absolutely ground down by it yet. It’s not the easiest job in the world, but it’s not the hardest either. I’ve done it a few times, and other me has done it even more. I give the guy my soc. He’s not going to do a full background check on a housekeeper — just the free validation check — so he’s not going to find out that I should be a 20-year-old college student. I tell him that my last name is Vance. If I’m still around by the time the check comes back with a different name, I’ll just explain that Forrester is my maiden name, and I wasn’t aware that my paperwork to change it back had been accepted already. I start tomorrow.

Brenda, the head housekeeper, gets me a uniform and shows me around. In the break room, I see what I was ardently hoping to see — a big grid with everyone’s work schedule on it. Steve and I work very similar hours. He works seven to three, and I work six to eleven. And not a minute over because they don’t want to give me a lunch break. Both the HR guy and Brenda emphasize this approximately 800 times.

It won’t take long for Gath’gor to realize I’m here. He may not know for sure that I was there that Christmas night, but even he will figure it out pretty quickly once he sees me.

Good.

“Good?” asks Elliot when I tell him. We’re sitting in his office — him in his big desk chair, me on the twin bed I slept on last night.

“Yes, good,” I reply. “He’ll be busy keeping an eye on me while we find an alternate venue.”

“Just move the whole con? Aren’t you the one always spouting off about butterfly wings?”

“I think we need to go on the assumption that the Golden State is compromised. If he hasn’t done it already, there’s not much to stop him from sabotaging the sprinklers. It’s one thing for me to move a bunch of dummy control panel components around. Fire safety systems are way beyond my pay grade. Steve has access to the guts of the system whenever he wants it. He’s shown in the past that he’s willing to just try shit. He might as well continue with his plan. He knows there’s only so much I can do about it.”

“So why work there at all?” he asks.

“I want to distract him — get him to think that I’m trying to thwart him directly while you and Alex circle around behind, so to speak.” I pause. I haven’t been looking forward to this part. I have no idea what it’s going to be like, seeing Alex. Confusing, I expect.

“What’s he doing these days?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Failing.

“What’s he doing?” asks Elliot. “Are you asking me if he has a job or if he’s he seeing someone?”

“Both.”

Elliot raises his eyebrows. “If he did have a girlfriend, would it make a difference?”

I’m sure Elliot knows that two years haven’t passed for me, but I also haven’t told him what’s happened to my memories of the last time I was here. And I don’t intend to either. “What’s at stake is more important than any discomfort I might feel over Alexander Dane finding someone to be with. And if he has, then I wish him all the best. He deserves it, and I certainly don’t have any claim on him. But I’d still like to be prepared, if it’s all the same to you.”

Truthfully, I don’t know if I want Alex to be available or not. If he’s seeing someone, it would simplify things considerably. We could just be friendly acquaintances working together — accomplishing a goal that’s in both our best interests. And we won’t have to talk about anything… close to my raw nerves. Because, if he isn’t attached, and he wants to pick up where we left off — I’m going to have to either tell him the truth about myself and what’s happened to me, or I’m going to have to make up a plausible lie. There’s no way I can just pretend that I’m not a completely different person from the one he knew.

But if he’s with someone, I can avoid all that. No need to discuss how I haven’t been gone long enough to erase the traces of him from my body. No need to talk about my now radically different reality. No need to talk about how I got here. No need to have him feel pity or contempt or whatever he might feel at my pathetic life… or lives.

“Well, as far as I know, he has neither,” says Elliot.

My stomach does something complicated as I cycle through emotions faster than I can parse them.

“I guess I need to talk to him,” I say.

“You guess you do?” Elliot looks a little exasperated.

“I don’t exactly have a manual of time travel protocol, you know,” I say. “I mean, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty much just winging it. And by ‘it’ I mean ‘everything.’ I didn’t think that I’d even be coming back again.”

“So you didn’t think you’d have to face the consequences?” he asks.

I feel myself shut down, ice over. I stop looking at Elliot. I press my lips together and wipe my face of expression. I feel my shoulders hunch and I make a conscious effort to straighten them. I concentrate on my breathing and wait.

I have no idea what I did wrong.

Or, rather, I have too many ideas, and I don’t know which one I should apologize for.

I try not to consider that Elliot or Alex or both of them may hate me now.

I feel cornered here, in Elliot’s home. I wonder if my remaining cash will cover an extended hotel stay.

I don’t know how sorry to be — not enough will make it seem as if I’m dismissing Elliot’s concern over my actions, too much and I’ll seem like I’m performing.

Or overreacting, which I am.

I thought I’d moved past this.

But I like Elliot and it’s breaking my heart that I’ve disappointed him — that he thinks less of me now.

Not that I deserve his respect or affection. Those were things someone else earned. I’m just here, cashing in on the friendships she made — that better, smarter version of myself.

“Mary Sue?”

I’ve taken too long.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Fine.” Automatic. It’s a joke where I come from. You say “fine” even if your arm is dangling off your body.

I smile, hoping that’s right — hoping that it just looked like me zoning out again.

“You seemed to disappear there for a second,” says Elliot, smiling back.

I unclench a little. Not too much. I always do the stupidest things when I’m relaxed.

“I… was just thinking that I should call Alex,” I say.

“Sounds good,” says Elliot, getting up from his chair. “I’m sure you guys have things to talk about.” He pats me on the shoulder as he’s heading toward the door. “I’m supposed to be having dinner with friends tonight, so you two can have the place to yourselves for a few hours.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Good luck,” he calls out from the hall.

I take a few deep breaths, then I go sit at Elliot’s desk and pull the Trimline phone towards me. We had one just like this when I was growing up, only it was wall-mounted. I play with the hang-up thingy on the base for a minute… just procrastinating.

And trying to pull myself together a little.

I look around at the clutter in Elliot’s work area. Pens, pencils, legal pads — Elliot apparently didn’t jump right onto the word processor bandwagon. (I, on the other hand, had a TRS-80 III and a copy of WordStar by 1982.) There’s a dictionary, a thesaurus, a picture of his cat who died last year, the _Encyclopedia Britannica_. There’s a photo in a frame on the wall next to Elliot’s desk — the main cast of _Galaxy Quest_ on the command deck of the _Protector_. They were probably doing a promo shoot, but in this photo, they’re just fucking around. Somebody said or did something funny, because they’re all cracking up. Tommy’s tipped back in his chair, holding his stomach like kids do when they think something is really hilarious. Gwen’s buried her face in Jason’s arm, and Jason is looking at her with a big, dopey smile. Alex and Fred are behind Tommy. Alex has his eyes closed and a soft, amused smile on his lips. Fred is looking toward him and grinning, his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

It’s Fred that finally gets me moving. I told him I could do this. He’s counting on me.

And I’m going to need help — help that can best be supplied by Alex.

I take my finger off the hook and start dialing.

There’s no time like the — whatever this is.

 

“I’m sure you have questions,” I say. “And I have no idea where to begin, so just ask and I’ll answer if I can.”

Alex and I are sitting in Elliot’s living room on opposite ends of Elliot’s couch. I’m facing him, my legs tucked into a half-lotus under my giant floral skirt. Alex, always more decorous, simply has his left knee bent enough to allow him to turn three-quarters of the way toward me.

His arm is lying across the back of the couch, and I can’t stop fixating on how close (and curiously familiar) his hand is.

I’m practically jumping out of my skin with nerves.

“Frank, Letitia, Elliot, and now me,” he says. “We’re the only ones who know?”

“Frank and Letitia have both seen me appear out of nowhere and you and Elliot have seen me disappear,” I say. “I targeted Frank because I needed an ally who could get me onto the set. The rest have been accidents. Having too many people know too much jeopardizes what I’m doing here.”

I don’t say that of all the people who know, he’s the most dangerous. He’s smart and very observant, and he’s directly involved in the mission to aid the Thermians.

“Butterfly effect.” He smiles. “Frank and Elliot both used that phrase.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking about the amount of collateral misery Gath’gor has (or is about to?) cause me.

“Who sent you here?” he asks.

“I can’t say,” I tell him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m fixing a timeline someone else broke. That other person wants a future event to fail. If he succeeds, some people will die. That’s vague, I know.

“Right now, his immediate objective is to prevent Quest Con 4 from occurring. I believe he will do that by sabotaging the hotel where it’ll be taking place. I know it seems odd, but one seemingly insignificant change can have big repercussions. And this person can only act through fairly indirect methods.”

He nods.

“How long have you been gone?” he asks.

There are so many answers to this question. Of course he knows that I was last here two years ago. He was here too. He wants to know what my subjective experience was.

My subjective experience was (still is) confusing.

“About 14 and a half hours passed between when I returned after the last time you saw me and when I left to come to this time,” I say.

Alex scowls, but it’s one of those concerned and worried scowls.

The crease between his eyebrows deepens.

“What the hell happened in those 14 hours?” he asks.

I guess it’s that obvious.

I come so close to saying something like that I’m tired, or the stress of so much responsibility is getting to me. Both of those things are true, but they don’t cover even a fraction of what’s wrong with me. And even though he’s sort of a stranger to me, I can’t get over how delighted he sounded when he interrupted the message I was leaving on his machine to tell me, slightly breathlessly, that he was there. I can’t get over the warmth of his smile when I answered Elliot’s door. I can’t get over the fact that he thinks I’m worth hurrying to pick up a phone, or worth dropping everything to come see me. I can’t get over the way my heart floated while I stood in Elliot’s doorway, tongue-tied. Or the way my stomach lurched as I remembered that I’m not the person he thinks I am.

He knows I’m different. I can either tell him nothing or tell him the truth, and I feel like I owe him the truth, or as much of it as I can give him.

What the hell happened in those 14 hours?

“Another lifetime,” I say.

And then I tell him all about my life — my lives.

The embarrassing stuff, like that I’m basically a hard-core fan. (I’m well aware that Alex has mixed feelings about the fans.) And that was why I was chosen to go back in time and fix stuff in the first place.

I tell him how my life changed after Quest Con 4 was canceled, although I’m a bit vague about why. I tell him how I didn’t dump (however messily) my college boyfriend. How I wasted an extra year trying to turn myself into what Jackson wanted. How he just stopped taking my calls or answering my letters after I graduated. I tell Alex about my first bout of depression. I tell him about the string of terrible dates I went on once I considered myself sufficiently recovered to try again. I tell him about Kevin, and how flattering it had been that someone who seemed to actually have it together was interested in me. I tell him how the me he remembers went on one date with Kevin before relegating him to the category of “amusing bad date anecdotes.” I tell him how the person he’s looking at now married that asshole.

“I know it’s stupid, but all of the people in my life that I trusted and who were older and wiser than me were people I knew from being a _Galaxy Quest_ fan. When that was removed from my life, it left me to make my terrible decisions on my own. And that’s how I ended up in a not-so-good marriage.

“The reason it took 14 and a half hours to get back here was because, in my current timeline, I never left. So instead of going back to… where the time machine was, I ended up about eleven hours north-east of there, celebrating my divorce with my best friend.

“I still have the memories of that other life, but they don’t really seem like my own memories. They feel like somebody else’s autobiography. I only know they’re real because the time machine turned out to be real, once I got back to it.

“And I’m just… not the same person. She was… confident and smart… and capable, even if she was just a baker in a small Midwestern city with a dinky apartment and a cat… She had her life together in ways that… I… can’t.”

Alex moves closer to me. He takes my hand. It feels warm and right and solid, and for a moment my mind fights it, finds reasons why I shouldn’t allow this — Alex doesn’t really know me, he only thinks he cares. Then I remember that I’ve resolved to trust my gut more. My gut told me not to stay with Jackson, not to marry Kevin, not to stop writing. She trusted her gut, that other me, and she trusted Alex.

And there’s only one way for him to know me now, so, staring at our joined hands, I start to tell him the rest of the story.

“He didn’t hit me,” I whisper, but I can tell Alex has heard me anyway by the sudden sharp intake of his breath.

Well, I mean, that _is_ a pretty low bar.

I clear my throat. “He didn’t hit me, but he… fucked with my head. He would deliberately provoke me into dramatic emotional responses, then tell me, ‘No one can _make_ you feel anything, Mary Sue.’ He belittled me constantly. There was no aspect of my self that was too fundamental or trivial for him to criticize. I was too needy and too emotional. My degree was useless. My politics were naive. My clothes were tacky. My tastes in books and movies were juvenile. My musical tastes were ‘girly.’ My wri— my hobbies were especially distasteful to him. He’d say, ‘Grow up, Mary Sue. You’re not in college anymore. This is real life.’

“Our social circle consisted almost entirely of his business contacts. Whenever one of them would brag about buying his wife some flashy, expensive thing, he’d make sure I got an even flashier, more expensive version of it.

“I had one of those free-standing cabinets full of jewelry — the finest that Zales has to offer — rings with big stones that always catch on everything, diamond stud earrings because hoops are tacky, a rose gold watch, tennis bracelets. I sold them. I donated an entire closetful of tasteful cashmere twinsets and wool slacks and shantung sheaths and heeled pumps.

“All of it was what he wanted me to wear, what he wanted me to be seen in. I hated it. Those things felt like costumes. But if I showed even the slightest hint that I didn’t like them, he would tell me that I was spoiled and ungrateful. I was so lucky to have a husband who bought me nice things, who took an interest. He was only trying to help me so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself.

He would take me to parties and act like he thought I was wonderful, but when we got home he’d pick apart everything I’d said and done. I shouldn’t tell jokes. I should laugh more at his friends’ jokes. I was too flirtatious. I was a prude. I shouldn’t have ‘made a big show’ of having caught one of his friends looking down my blouse. I should definitely stay out of conversations about politics. I drank too much or everyone thought I was a drag for only having one glass. I made a pig of myself or I insulted the hostess by not eating enough. “I guess it’s true,’ he’d say, ‘you can’t polish a…’”

I feel Alex’s hand tighten momentarily around mine. I take a breath and go on.

“He liked that I cooked — as long as I didn’t cook anything too spicy or exotic or pedestrian. He liked to bring home his associates and show off his little woman. I would practice making whatever foods were trendy on the coasts, knowing that he’d hear about them in a couple of years and expect me to be an expert in preparing them already.

“He was so transparent, and I hated myself for being dependent on him.

“Then one day, out of the blue, he wanted me to get a job — something that he had always been adamant that I not do and probably couldn’t do well anyway. But his friend’s wife had opened a bridal boutique, and she was looking for an assistant. It was pretty obvious that this was all about getting in good with the husband, but I was just so eager to do something even a little useful.

“Caroline figured out that Kevin was an asshole pretty quickly. She helped me hide enough money from him to hire a lawyer. A good one too — she managed to find all the money he was hiding in offshore accounts.

“And now I’m free of him — except for the pathological fear of criticism, the minuscule self-esteem, and the complete lack of faith in my own judgment. Oh, and a tendency to freeze when I think I’ve offended someone.

“I really am not the person you knew two years ago, Alex. I need you to know that.

“He taught me to see myself as pathetic and inadequate — a burden. And I… I let him.”

I sit there, watching the place where my hand disappears into his, waiting to hear his judgment.

“Mary Sue,” he says. “You did nothing to deserve his abuse.”

Of the people who know what my life has been like, only Mi-Na has used that word. Well, Mi-Na and now, Alex.

I look up at his face.

There are tears there.

Like that night at the theater.

And when he tugs me closer, I follow. I let him pull me practically into his lap. I succumb to the comfort of him — his big body and his scent. I will myself to believe that this is okay, that I’m not bad or weak for taking this when he’s offering so sweetly. Could anyone seriously blame me?

It’s been years since I’ve felt anything as physically _good_ as being held by Alex Dane while I cry.

Eventually, I dry up and just sit there with my head against his shoulder, listening to him breathe. I notice he’s shifting under me, and I realize I must be heavy. I sit up, backwards on the sofa, facing him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing a couple of Kleenex from the side table.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he replies, smiling at me. “The pins and needles will go way in a minute.”

I make a face, shaking my head.

“Mary Sue,” he says, and he touches my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I hope that, whatever else I am to you, I am your friend.”

“Alex…”

But I’m smiling back at him, and even if it’s a weak little smile, it doesn’t feel like an expression I’m putting on because now is the socially accepted moment to insert a smile.

In fact, it may not be.

But he’s still smiling, so that’s good.

“Thank you for being here for me,” I say.

“Thank you for trusting me.” He drops his hand. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” I answer.

“I brought Indian food — stuffed peppers.”

“Perfect.”

There’s also _roti_ and a _dal_ with fenugreek. While we eat, I explain my plan (what there is of it) for fixing the timeline.

“I do actually know of a place that might serve,” says Alex. “I ran into Sam Carson, the director of summer programs at the Loevinger Institute. Apparently, seeing me reminded him that the Quest Con Committee had contacted him last year about holding the convention there. Carson said they were already booked, but now that group has dropped out and he was regretting that they would likely lose a sizable chunk of money over it. The summer programs help fund several scholarships offered by the institute.”

“Loevinger — that sounds familiar,” I say.

“The interior was used as the Intergalactic Assembly Chamber in ‘The Price of Peace,’ and the quad provided the buildings for the capital city of Avsnoyl.”

“That would be perfect!” I say. And it would be. Imagine having the main stage in the IAC? “I can see why the committee would be interested.”

The question is, when Cece goes looking for a place to move the con, will she contact Loevinger? Either she won’t, assuming that they’re unavailable, or she will, but they’ll have found a new group by then.

“I can call him tomorrow — secure the venue,” he says.

“I don’t want you too directly involved. I don’t want anyone tracing anything illegal back to you if that’s the route I have to take.”

“Illegal?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Mildly. I mean, nothing _immoral_ , but I might have to do something that would technically be illegal and also look compromising for you.”

“Like what?”

“Like set a small fire?” I say.

“Mary Sue! Are you cra—?” He stops himself.

I force myself to speak. “It would be a last resort,” I say. “I can’t hurt anyone, so it would be relatively safe.”

“Can you hurt yourself?” he asks.

I honestly hadn’t thought of that.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“I would prefer that you not endanger yourself.”

Well, I mean, that makes sense. It would be pretty callous of him to just be okay with me getting hurt. I should have expected that.

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t come to that,” I say. “But I may need to force his hand. The committee isn’t going to move the whole shebang at this late date just because of a sexy new venue. I need something to push them out of The Golden State while there’s still time to salvage the con.”

“What if he hasn’t sabotaged the hotel at all?” asks Alex.

“What if he has? I can’t, in good conscience, allow the con to go forward if the hotel is unsafe. He’s had plenty of time to do whatever he wants. I have to work on the assumption that he’s already done the damage.”

“But if neither of you can hurt someone in this time...”

“He can indirectly hurt them. He can just leave the hotel compromised and hope for the worst. My guess is that none of the people who are directly involved in… what he’s trying to prevent would be harmed, but what about the ones who aren’t? The staff or other guests, for instance? What if there’s a fire in two or three years?

“I mean, look what he’s done to me,” I say.

“I still don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. People… are counting on me.”

 

Alex didn’t stay much longer that night. Which was good. I needed sleep so I could be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for work this morning.

I get there five minutes early. Brenda reminds me that I’m not to punch in until six o’clock on the dot. She pairs me with another housekeeper, an older Latina named Dolores. She’s nice, but gloomy as hell.

She tells me that she’s heard that management is going to change housekeeping from set hours to assigning a certain number of rooms each day.

“These young girls — they’ll get their work done like they’re on fire,” she says. “They want to get out and go have fun. Old ladies like me, we’ll cost too much. The bosses will sack us.”

I nod my head. She’s not wrong.

“Do you always work in pairs here?” I ask.

“Pfff. I wish. But it’s just for a couple of days, to make sure you know the drill. Not that I haven’t been telling them for years that it would be safer if we worked in pairs. You know — the girls can watch out for each other and not have to go into guest rooms by themselves. But the bosses don’t care if we get cornered by some big business man who thinks we’re like the soaps — just something they get to take if they want to.”

I nod my head again. She’s still not wrong.

“I kneed one of them right in the nuts once,” she says.

“You go,” I say.

“Go where?”

“It’s just a phrase, like ‘good for you!’” I say.

“Oh,” she says, then goes on with her story. “He told the bosses that I stole something from his room.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“Nah,” she says. “Guests pull that shit all the time. If the bosses fired a housekeeper every time that happened, they’d have to scrub toilets and wipe pubes out of the showers themselves.”

“You’ve got a point, Dolores.”

We get done early, unsurprisingly, since there’s two of us. Brenda tells us to go run our vacuums in the conference rooms.

When we get to the second one, Steve’s in there, setting up a ladder. If I had any doubt as to his identity, I can see a sort of sickly green/brown aura around him. Well, I’d wanted to make sure he knew someone was watching him.

“Gary?!” I say, like I’m just delighted as shit to see him.

“Huh?! What? My name is Steve,” he says, not-at-all suspiciously.

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. You look just like the security guard where I used to work. His name was Gary. He used to do a great impression of our boss, Frank.”

“I told you, I’m not Gary,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “My name is Steve.”

“You going to be in here awhile?” asks Dolores.

“I got to fix that light bulb,” he says, pointing to a dark recessed lighting canister in the ceiling.

“Come on,” Dolores says to me. “We’ll do number three and come back to this one when we’re done.”

About halfway through the third conference room, I tell Brenda that I need to go to the bathroom. When I peek inside the second room, Gath’gor has gone, but he left the ladder.

Oh, this is going swimmingly.

I grab the ladder and park it under the nearest sprinkler. Then I pop up and “make a visual inspection” — just like the guy at my old job showed me. The bulb is intact and I can’t see any corrosion. It looks brand new actually. I climb back down the ladder and leave it, very conspicuously, under the sprinkler. I go rejoin Dolores in the other conference room.

When we finally get to room number two, the ladder is gone.

I think Gath’gor got the message.

 

When I get home, I call Sam Carson at the the Loevinger Institute. We do a bit of introductory chitchat. I tell him that my name is Thalia Zimmerman, and that I’m with Quest Con.

“This is going to sound odd, Mr. Carson, but I got a phone call from someone claiming to work for the hotel where we’re currently planning to hold Quest Con. This person said that he knew of problems the hotel was having and that someone was going to blow the whistle on them for safety violations. Call me paranoid, but I want nothing to do with this situation, real or imagined, so when I heard that you had an opening for that weekend…”

“We’d love to have you, Miss Zimmerman,” says Carson. “Don’t you think you’re acting hastily though? Someone is probably just trying to pull the wool over your eyes — a disgruntled employee, perhaps?”

“Believe me, we’re looking into it, but I want to be sure that we’ll have a back-up plan in the worst-case scenario.”

“I sympathize with your position. However, you must see it from my point of view. Your group would likely require use of the entire facility. If we place a hold on it and your current plans do not fall through, we will be left holding the bag, as the saying goes.”

This guy doesn’t want to fix his problem, I guess.

“It’s unlikely that you’ll find a large group to rent the institute,” I point out. “I’m willing to make a deposit. Cash in hand is better than two groups in a bush — one even more hypothetical than the other.”

I like that line. I should remember that.

“We would require at least 3,000 dollars — and the deposit would be non-refundable.”

Ouch. I know I have one full stack left in the knapsack, along with most of another. It’s doable, but it’s going to nearly wipe me out.

“To whom should I make the check payable?” I ask. This guy is really chapping my butt, and I’m very proper when I’m feeling frosty.

“The Loevinger Institute. You understand that I won’t be able to accept a personal check for such a large sum?”

3,000 dollars? Really? I mean, I wasn’t going to write a personal check anyway, obviously, but what’s this guy’s deal?

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Two o’clock?”

“Two is fine, Miss Zimmerman. Until then, goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Carson.”

I make a face at the phone and go round up Elliot so we can make a run to the bank. Someone’s going to have to show I.D. to get a cashier’s check. Afterward, we head to the grocery store where I pick up some supplies. I can’t let Elliot and Alex pay for all of my meals, but I’m suddenly on a budget.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon with the Palm, recording the day’s events.

That evening I braise some greens with lentils, and sear some salmon fillets to go with it. Elliot clearly doesn’t cook. His kitchen is beyond basic — all of the materials and appliances are old and cheap. The only reason it doesn’t look like crap is that housing take-out menus and TV dinners doesn’t exactly put much wear and tear on a room. He has one decent skillet and a not-terrible saucepan. The rest of his cookware resembles something made for preparing Jiffy-Pop. His tools obviously came as a set, possibly a gift for opening a bank account. They’re as chintzy as they are unused. The knives are a nightmare, and I’m glad I brought my own from Frank’s.

“I can’t believe this came from my kitchen,” says Elliot, tucking into his dinner.

“ _I_ can’t believe this came from your kitchen.”

“Even my mother won’t cook in there.”

“I’ve worked with worse,” I say. I mean, not much worse. I’ve seen campfires that are more state-of-the-art, but at least he has a pan or two to work with. “As long as a cook has proper knives and good ingredients, the rest is negotiable. Fancier equipment makes the process easier and more pleasurable, is all.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says. “I’m surprised Alex isn’t here.” Already bored with the subject of kitchens and what happens in them.

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, you and he… you know.”

“That was two years ago, Elliot.”

“Not for you it wasn’t.”

“But it was for him,” I say firmly and leave it at that. The very idea that Alexander Dane is still… interested in me like that is ridiculous.

The way I am now, the very idea that Alexander Dane would ever be interested in me like that is ridiculous.

Elliot looks at me with an expression that can only be called speculative. I don’t like it. It makes it hard to swallow my dinner.

“Besides,” I say, “as I’ve already told Alex, I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to be directly involved when he doesn’t need to be.”

“Because?”

“Because… well, I told him it was because some of the things I might have to do aren’t legal. But there’s also the fact that he’s… a big part of the events that ‘Steve’ is trying to prevent. Alex is smart, and the more I involve him in the business of what I’m doing here, the more he’s going to figure out. It could influence him… later.”

“And you weren’t worried about this back when you decided to shtup him?”

For a second, all I can do is stare at him — torn between shame and anger.

To my surprise, anger wins.

In a landslide.

“You keep needling me about this. Why do you care, Elliot? Are you jealous?”

“Of Alex?!”

“No,” I say. “Of me.”

Now Elliot stares at me.

“What are you saying?” he asks. “That I’m…”

“I’m saying, Elliot, that someday you will out yourself in a national magazine.”

He drops his fork on his plate, and sits back in his chair.

“You knew. This whole time, you knew. And you didn’t say anything.”

“Neither did you,” I point out. “I was trying to respect your privacy.”

“Well, you’re doing a bang-up job, Mary Sue.”

And all the anger I’ve been feeling toward Elliot does an abrupt about face and heads right back to me. It coalesces into a cold ball of slime about three-quarters of the way down my esophagus.

My mouth pinches shut. My shoulders try to hunch. I keep pressing them back down, trying not to look cringey. My hands get cold, and I put them in my lap

I stare at my wine glass, willing myself not to add the final shame of tears to this situation.

Crying is pathetic and emotionally manipulative — the last refuge of those who wish to play the victim.

I won’t do it. I won’t. I won’t. _I won’t_.

“Mary Sue?”

Elliot has come around to my side of the table. He’s crouching next to my chair.

“Mary Sue, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Down below the ball of slime is a scream. I can hear it. If I move wrong, I’ll let it out.

“You’re scaring me,” says Elliot.

This isn’t right. I’m the one who fucked up. Why is he sorry?

“No, you’re right,” I say, carefully, trying to not become hysterical. “I shouldn’t have let my…”

Base physical urges? Lust? What?

“…libido override my sense. And I was wrong to get angry with you for pointing it out.”

Is that right? Is “libido” the right word? Does it convey that I understand how bad I am without sounding melodramatic? Maybe I should have stuck with “lust,” but that seems so… Falwellian.

“Wait. You think I’m getting after you for being a… floozy or something?”

“Or for leading Alex on…” I say.

“As far as I can tell, he knew what he was getting into…” He waves his hand. “Look, I don’t think you’re a… I don’t think you did anything wrong. I just worry that you’ll get hurt.”

“You think he led me on? He never made any promises. I wouldn’t have wanted him to.”

“No, no.” Elliot runs a hand over his head. “I’m afraid that you’ll come back one day, and it’ll have been ten years for him, and ten minutes for you, and he’ll be married with eight kids.”

“I know his future,” I say. “At least, I know it well enough to know that won’t happen. I don’t know if he’ll become attached to someone else or simply forget about me, but I expect he will, and I expect it’ll hurt, but I’m not in a position to…”

What? Make him happy? Maybe I could believe that of the other me, but this me is barely functioning.

“I want him to be happy,” I say, “and I wanted him more than I wanted to avoid the pain. Besides, we’re…”

I hate that phrase — just friends.

“…we’re not romantically involved now. And I’m sorry I worried you. And I’m sorry I said that I thought you were jealous. And I’m sorry that I never told you that I know you’re gay.”

One corner of Elliot’s mouth curls upward. “That one was a shock.”

“It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me, you know.”

“They’ve eradicated homophobia in your time, have they?” he asks.

“Hardly.” I shake my head. “I mean, it _is_ getting better. About a third of the U.S. supports the right to same-sex marriage.”

“That’s certainly an improvement over speculating as to whether we should have the right to exist. Mind you, it would be more promising if I knew how far in the future you’re from,” he says, standing up.

He goes back to his side of the table and sits down. “Do you want to tell me why you keep shutting down like that?” he asks.

“Not really,” I say. “But… my own personal timeline has been altered. My life is very different now.”

“Different in a bad way.” It’s not a question.

Well, he’s not wrong.

“One result is that if I think someone I like disapproves of me, it just sends me to this place where I can’t even reason anymore. It’s very likely that accomplishing my mission will change it back though, or at least, mostly change it back. I hope.”

“Well then, let’s finish dinner so you can get some sleep. You’ve got an early morning of making beds and stalking Steve tomorrow.” Elliot picks up his fork and starts in on his cold dinner. I do the same.

We eat in silence for a few minutes.

“Sixteen years,” I say. “You can never tell anyone. Not Frank, not Letitia, and most certainly not Alex.”

“Okay.” He scowls at his plate for a few seconds, then looks back up at me. “And AIDS?”

For a moment, I’m sort of surprised by the question.

Like somehow I didn’t live through the Eighties. Or the Nineties.

Or maybe it’s because I have, and even the most terrifying things become just another part of the environment you live in — like earthquakes in California or tornadoes in Southwest Michigan.

But in 1983? Honestly, it’s the question I would have asked too — especially if I were a gay man.

“There’s no cure, but there are effective drug therapies. Contracting the virus is no longer an automatic death sentence. Prevention and early detection are still the key things.”

“That’s the good news,” he says.

“A lot of people are going to die,” I say. “A lot of gay and bisexual people and minorities.”

Elliot is silent, staring at his plate. Absorbing this — absorbing the things I’m not saying. It will be worse because it isn’t happening to straight white men. It isn’t happening to anyone important.

He swallows and looks at me. “Will I — ?”

“You’ll do a panel at Quest Con 17. You’ll be getting a bit thicker in the middle, but you looked fine to me — for an old fart.”

He smiles a little.

“Tell me Reagan won’t get a second term.”

“I’ve already answered three more questions than I should,” I say.

 

The next morning, I’m teamed with Dolores again, so of course we finish up way before our shift ends. Brenda sends us to clean the reception area and the manager’s office.

Which is unexpectedly awesome.

See, I had planned to sneak into this very office ASAP and see if I couldn’t dig up some info on my pal Steve.

There’s a couple of nice, big filing cabinets in the office — one of which has a drawer helpfully labeled, “Staff Records — Current.”

I go through it as soon as Dolores leaves for her bathroom break.

I’ve brought the Palm and its camera attachment with me today, so as soon as I find Steve Gagorian’s file, I pull everything out, lay it on the floor near the window, and take pictures of his employment application and his yearly review. I have it all filed neatly back in the cabinet by the time Dolores gets back.

I’m dying of curiosity, but I don’t dare take the Palm out any more than I have to at work.

And after work, I need to change into my responsible, prosperous adult outfit and head over to the Loevinger Institute with Elliot.

As I rather expected, Carson is a little less condescending toward a woman with a cashier’s check in hand and a dude in tow. It’s galling, but I don’t have time to waste not taking the path of least resistance. Carson does at least do me the courtesy of not addressing _all_ of his remarks to Elliot.

Anyway, it’s done. The Loevinger Institute is being held for us.

Now, we need to make moving Quest Con there seem necessary.

It’s about five minutes to four when I finally sit down with the Palm and start going over Gath’gor’s paperwork. I got pretty good photos, but they’re really meant to be viewed on a standard VGA monitor from 1999. Once I manage to squint at it long enough to decipher it, I transcribe the info onto one of Elliot’s legal pads.

It’s only when Elliot comes in to ask if I want some pizza that I realize I’ve been working on it for three solid hours.

It takes a minute to surface, but when I do, I can smell the oregano and tomatoes.

“Yeah, that sounds great, Elliot. Thanks.”

I grab the legal pad and head into the little dining area off the kitchen.

“Did you find anything?” asks Elliot.

“He listed the studio in his work history,” I say. “That makes me think that he didn’t lie about the two jobs he says he’s had since then.”

“And?”

“And one of them was for a contractor in Monterey named Darren Sears. He installs fire sprinkler systems.”

“Great job for an arsonist.”

“No kidding,” I say. “The thing is, there’s something about Monterey and sprinklers that’s ringing bells for me, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Something newsworthy?” he asks.

“Most likely, or I wouldn’t have heard about it in… clear across the country.”

“I could go to the library tomorrow. If you have a date range. The _Merc_ or the _Times_ probably covered it.

“I don’t know the date. Sorry. And even if I did, I’m pretty sure I used up my share of good luck when I got put in a room alone with Steve’s work info today. Whatever it is I’m trying to remember probably takes place eight years from now.”

 

The next day is Thursday. When I get to the hotel, Brenda informs me that this is my last day working with Dolores. I have Friday off, but I’ll be soloing when I come back on Saturday.

Last night, after my three a.m. bathroom break, I thought about how nice and shiny that sprinkler head had looked. Fred had said that the Golden State was built right after the war, but that sprinkler head was definitely no thirty-year-old relic.

Today I intend to use my last day working side-by-side with Dolores to find out what I can about that.

About an hour into our shift, I pointedly stop in the middle of the hall and look up at the ceiling.

“You know,” I say, “I don’t think I’ve ever been in such an old building that had sprinklers. Is that common in L.A.?”

“Nah,” says Dolores. “The owner got a bug up his ass about four or five years ago. Had systems installed in all of his buildings. It was a huge mess here, let me tell you.”

I let her tell me.

Apparently, the job had run over on time due to some last-minute changes. Dolores isn’t sure what the deal was, but she is sure that the contractor was pissed off.

“I tell you what — my husband’s a longshoreman. I’ve heard some rough language in my time, but nothing compared to what came out of that guy’s mouth.

“Anyway — he finished up here, but the boss told me that the owner got complaints from a couple of guests who overheard that guy cussing out the boss, the owner, and Jesus. He hired someone else to do his other buildings.”

“He sounds like a nasty piece of work,” I say.

“Oh boy,” she agrees. “Last I heard, he’d moved up to Monterey. I always wondered if he’d got a bad reputation here or something.”

Those bells from last night have become a full-blown carillon.

“Maybe he just likes sea lions,” I say.

Dolores snorts a little.

What can I say? I’m just witty as hell.

 

When I get back to Elliot’s, I’m exhausted. I’ve been getting up at four-thirty every morning in order to make it to work, and it’s just been too many six-hour nights in a row. I lie down on the bed for a minute before lunch, and end up sleeping for four hours.

I wake up ravenous, of course.

Elliot’s nowhere to be found, so I decide to just make myself some peppery spaghetti with Romano cheese, which was about forty percent of my meals when I was still single — or when I was the other me. I grab a barrette, and clip my hair up into a sloppy, lopsided ponytail.

I’m grating the cheese and singing “Come On Eileen” along with the radio when I hear the front door open. Elliot pokes his head into the kitchen.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“I’m up,” I correct.

“I brought company.”

Oh yay.

It’s Alex.

I turn off the radio.

I tell myself that it absolutely shouldn’t bother me that he’s seeing me looking like this. I mean, he’s seen me naked with my hair tied in one witchy-wild rat’s nest.

That thought doesn’t help. I can feel my face getting hot.

“Hello,” says Alex, and maybe it’s my over-heated imagination, but maybe he looks just a little red himself.

“Hi,” I say. “Um. _Cacio e pepe_?”

“Sounds delicious.” He smiles at me and I think I might have held eye contact a bit too long.

“Sounds mysterious,” says Elliot.

“It’s pretty basic,” I say, turning around to grate more cheese. “Salt and carbs.”

“May I help?” asks Alex.

“You can grind the…” Oh fuck. “…pepper.”

Of course my brain takes the opportunity to remind me that other me asked him to grind pepper, then fucked him. Repeatedly. And it was amazing.

“How was work?” asks Elliot.

Work. Right. I have a job.

“I… ah… I found out that the guy who installed the system at the Golden State moved to Monterey shortly after.”

“And I take it you don’t think that’s a coincidence?”

“It would be a hell of a coincidence.”

I think I’m good for cheese now, so I grab a knife and start slicing garlic.

“Is this enough?” asks Alex, holding up a saucer with the pepper he’s ground.

“Perfect.”

“Is there anything else?”

I nod toward the garlic. “This is the last of the prep. Thanks.”

“I’ll lay the table then.”

Lucky table.

I put some olive oil in the questionable saucepan along with the garlic slices and pepper. I let them cook gently until the aroma fills the air and the garlic is turning just a little toasty at the edges. I move the pan off the heat and put the skillet on. The skillet is the only thing large enough to boil the spaghetti, so I have to be careful to stir it often to keep it from sticking together.

Once the pasta is done, I drain it, letting some of the water pour into a measuring cup I’ve placed in the sink. I put the spaghetti and a little of the water back in the pan and add some butter, then the stuff in the saucepan, then the cheese. I stir it all together with a fork, hoping that it won’t clump up. Thankfully, it comes together the way it should, and I take it to the table.

It’s delicious and very comforting. I haven’t had this in years. There’s no way Kevin would eat anything that didn’t include meat.

And someone has poured me a glass of cold white wine.

I stop hearing what Alex and Elliot are talking about, and I’m just drifting on the sound of their voices — Alex’s low growl and Elliot’s soft tenor.

Another thing I haven’t done in a very long time.

I’ve lost so many friends — Fred, Cece, Shondra. I mean, I guess I found Fred again, and I didn’t know Caroline at all in the other timeline. And here’s Alex and Elliot, ready to accept this more brittle version of the person they’ve known.

And there’s Mi-Na — my one constant — who left her girlfriend, Kami, for two entire weeks in order to babysit my sad ass.

I probably owe Kami a fruit basket.

“Mary Sue…”

It’s Alex.

“Sorry,” I say. “Off in my own little world, I guess.” I wave my hand toward space.

“Well, it appeared to be a good world,” says Elliot.

“Pretty good. But I’m back now, so what did I miss?”

“Not much,” says Elliot. “We were just gossiping about one of the shows Stan’s working on for next season — something about a shape-shifter who solves crimes.”

I wince. “Manim— ?! I mean, that sounds interesting.”

“That bad, huh?”

I try to look innocent. Alex and Elliot are both cracking up.

“I suppose that answers that question,” says Alex.

“Have you got any ideas for getting the planning committee to move Quest Con?” asks Elliot.

“You mean better than arson?”

“Yeah,” says Elliot. “Better than that.”

“I still don’t know if or how he sabotages the system. I can’t just go to the manager and say, ‘One of the maintenance guys is up to something. He used to work for the guy who installed the sprinklers and cussed you out in the lobby. Maybe you should cancel all upcoming conventions.’”

“My word would likely be enough to sway Cecelia Fleischman,” says Alex.

“You may be right,” I say. “But is it enough to convince the rest of the committee? It’s a monumental task, moving an entire convention in one month. They’re going to need a shove.”

“Tell them the place is infested,” says Elliot. “It’s got firebugs.”

Hehe — firebugs.

The proverbial light bulb blinks on.

“Bugs!” I say. “Bugsy Siegal.”

“You want to tell them the hotel is infested with dead gangsters?” asks Elliot.

I roll my eyes.

“The contractor, Sears,” I say. “Darren Sears. He has, or will have, a vanity plate that reads ‘Bugsy.’”

“And you know this because…?” says Elliot.

“I know this because I used to work in a bridal shop in a shopping center, and the guy who did the quarterly inspection of the sprinkler system liked to chat. And because Darren Sears is pretty infamous in certain circles. He installed dozens of non-functioning sprinkler systems, maybe more, all over the Monterey Bay area from the early- to mid-eighties. He rigged them to pass system inspections, but the heads weren’t even connected to the pipes. Sometimes they were just glued to the ceiling.

“Somebody finally caught one of his fake systems in the chapel of a Catholic high school. He confessed to a bunch of others as part of his plea deal. Later on, they got him on tax evasion, because they always get them on tax evasion.”

“He endangered the lives of children in order to cut corners?” asks Alex, clearly disgusted.

“No,” I say. “Here’s the kicker — in many of the cases, it cost him _more_ time and money to install the frauds than it would have for him to do it right. He did it for revenge. Some builder or architect or manager would piss him off, and he’d leave them with no fire protection. Dolores told me today that the guy who retrofit the Golden State’s system ripped the manager a new one for some reason. I think while Steve was working for him, he found out what this jerk does when he thinks he’s been slighted, checked into the system at the Golden State, found it compromised, and went from there.”

“We’re lucky some inspector had a crush on you,” says Elliot.

I laugh. “I doubt he had a crush. I was an old lady by the time he met me. He was a kid fresh out of college. No, I think he was just bored and bridal shops often have long down times — especially in November, which is when one of the inspection times fell. I was just an available audience, especially when all the other stores were busy with Christmas shoppers.”

“Be that as it may,” says Alex. “What do we do with this information?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say. “I’d like to see if we can confirm that it was Darren Sears who did the work at the Golden State before I solidify any plans.”

“How do we do that?” asks Elliot.

“They had to file a permit, and all permits have the contractor’s name on them.”

“So — another trip to City Hall is what you’re saying.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

 

Later, when I’m walking him to the door, Alex turns to me and sort of peers at my face for a moment.

“I think he probably did have a crush on you,” he says.

It takes me a moment — the sprinkler system inspector.

“Alex —” I’m smiling as I shake my head, sure he’s joking with me.

He’s smiling too, but he’s being serious.

“When I met you, I was 25, barely out of university. I thought you were lovely — smart and witty. I thought you were uniquely beautiful in a way I hadn’t known real people could be beautiful. I was flattered by that fact that you stopped every morning to bestow your attention on me — and to challenge me. I wanted to ask you out for months, and then you disappeared before I could locate my balls.

“When I saw you again, I was 27. And you were still… lovely, so I didn’t let my second chance pass me by — I asked you out. And I found you to be everything I’d thought you were plus passionate and insightful. I was enraptured by the way your mind works. I was 27 when you invited me to spend the night with you, and I was so far from expecting that you could return my regard that I barely found the words to accept.

“I’ve never asked you how old you are. It’s never mattered to me. But I suspect that you are a not insignificant number of years older than I am. To me, you are still the loveliest, most interesting person I know. And I believe that your inspector would concur with me, but even if he didn’t, I want you to know that I have _always_ had a crush on you.”

“Alex… That’s very… flattering. I’m not her anymore.”

He nods. “You’re more frightened and anxious. You’ve become far too accustomed to being hurt. On the other hand, you’re still kind-hearted. You’re brave and determined. And you’re still passionate and smart and beautiful…”

He winces a little.

“It’s corny but — _here_ , Mary Sue...” He points at my breastbone. “You’re still beautiful in all the ways that are most important.”

I’m… flabbergasted, honestly. All I can do is stand there like an idiot, staring at him.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “You’re hot too.”

I laugh. And he laughs. Some snorting might be involved.

“Come out to dinner with me tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll eat at six o’clock like a couple of grandparents. I know you have to work at an ungodly hour on Saturday. Please?”

“Okay,” I say.

I mean, after all that, how could I say no?

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Nothing fancy, though. My wardrobe consists of three skirts just like this one and no access to Letitia’s closet.”

“I’ll pick you up at five-thirty.” He kisses me lightly on the cheek, and he leaves.

 

We end up going to the red-checks-and-amber-candle-holders Italian place again. The chicken saltimbocca is still excellent.

And Alex is looking handsome in a pair of well-worn jeans, a dark blue shirt, and a brown tweedy jacket. He has that hot, young professor look down pat.

He asks me how it went at City Hall.

“It took them a little while to locate the permit, but Darren Sears was the contractor who installed the sprinkler system at the Golden State. I’d bet dollars to donuts he sabotaged it, just like he did the one at that high school. And Steve knows it.”

“So now what?” asks Alex.

I wish I knew.

“Now I force Steve’s hand?” I say. “Maybe make him carry out his scheme early and hope that the resulting scandal is enough to make the planning committee pull up stakes?”

“Wouldn’t the fire department shut it down?”

“I have no idea, actually,” I say. “My intel is sketchy since I was unable to access any kind of news account before I came here. I have information from someone who was involved, but time had passed and that person only had part of the story to begin with. She said it was the fire department that shut the hotel down, but she couldn’t give a definitive reason why. She just assumed that it was the faulty sprinkler system, but it’s not even illegal at this time for a building as old as the Golden State to have no system at all. It seems unlikely that such a stiff penalty would be in place for a system that simply didn’t work. But that’s why I want Steve to make the move. I’m assuming that whatever he did the first time — or will do the first time — will be enough to have the desired effect. He’s had more time to work on this, after all.”

“And if you fail?” he asks.

“Then I’ll have to try something else.”

“Wait. Are you saying that you’d have to stay here?” He makes the same face as he did last night once he’d realized the depths of Darren Sears’ dickishness.

“Yeah, I probably would until I got it right.”

“And every time, you’ve been under that same pressure?”

“Well, yeah.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I could fix the timeline for everyone else and still have it be broken for me. The Thermians need syndication. I need Quest Con.

“Look,” I say. “You know what helps?”

“No, what?”

“You.”

He smiles. “I’m a distraction?”

“A welcome one.”

“Does this mean you’d like to quit talking shop now?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I admit.

“We could always talk about literature. We probably don’t even need to confine ourselves to the classics.”

“Oh god.” I’m laughing now. “I could never remember when anything was written, so I stuck to stuff that was at least fifty years old.”

“I figured as much.”

We end up discussing _The Color Purple_ and John Irving and _Torch Song Trilogy_. I only flub up once when I mention _A Prayer for Owen Meany_. That carries us through dinner and dessert and nursing a couple of after-dinner drinks while ignoring the pointed looks of a waitstaff trying to seat the people who aren’t interested in the Early Bird Special.

It’s nearly eight when we leave. Alex helps me on with my jacket.

As I’m holding my left hand back for him, the neck of my top gets pulled cattywampus, revealing the fading remnants of my hickey. Alex touches it lightly before he slides my jacket into place.

We don’t say anything until we get back to his car.

“Do you remember?” he asks, once we’re sitting in the front seats.

Do I? All of those dream-like memories have been pushing their way into my consciousness for days now. Reminding me of all the ways that he is exactly how I — she remembered him. Asking me to consider all the ways he may yet live up to my expectations.

“Of course,” I say. “Sort of. I can picture… all of it. It’s like the rest, though. It doesn’t feel like a real memory.”

I’m staring at my hands folded in my lap.

“We could…” Alex clears his throat. “We could… if you want… make new memories.”

If I want.

Every time I see him, all I do is want. I want what she had. I want sweet, fun, _good_ sex. I want Alex. I want something besides a fading hickey to prove it was all real.

All that want is just too big. So before I can find a reason to stop myself, I kneel up in my seat, lean over, and kiss him.

His mouth is perfect. It’s the center of the universe.

I don’t remember the last time I kissed someone.

The last time someone kissed me was at a party that Kevin and I attended the weekend before I left him. He grabbed me in the living room in front of everyone — of course it always had to be in front of people — that was the whole point. He liked to think he was making everyone jealous. He wanted the guys to think that I was always hot for him. He wanted the women to wish their husbands were like him. Also, he knew I wouldn’t make a scene in front of other people when he stuck as much of his tongue in my mouth as possible, even though I hated it. Which he damn well knew. Which was also the point.

This is so far removed from those kisses that it seems impossible that the two things could share the same label.

Alex’s mouth is gentle, responsive — a little cautious maybe, but who could blame him? I’m cautious myself, unsure of my level of proficiency. WWOMD? What would other me do? She would want to explore, and that sounds good to me too. So — as she did two years, two weeks, or whatever ago — I let the tip of my tongue taste his lower lip. I’m rewarded with a soft sigh of warm air against my cheek and a nearly inaudible, growling hum. Then Alex’s tongue touches mine.

It’s weird, I know, to be kissing like I’m twelve and just learning how. But it seems right to start back at that early point where everything was excitement and possibility.

And just because I’m starting there, doesn’t mean I can’t fast-forward a little. I press my mouth to Alex’s and slide my tongue alongside his. This must be alright — the humming intensifies. I bury my fingers in his hair and settle my body against his and kiss and nip and suck and kiss and kiss.

When my need for oxygen starts to outweigh my need to make Alex make those noises, I pull my head back a little and look at him, trying to read his mind. His arms are around my waist and I’m pressed close enough that I can feel how hard our hearts are beating.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m sure I want you,” I say. “Sure I can do this?” I slowly move my head back and forth. “Not so much.”

I kiss him again — just a small kiss. “But I want to try,” I say.

“We should leave the parking lot then,” he says before kissing me again.

“Mm-hmm.” I return his kiss with just the barest brush of lips. I sit back, take a deep breath, and buckle myself in before I can be tempted to vacate my seat again.

It takes about 15 minutes to get to Alex’s place.

During which time, I manage to second, third, and fourth guess myself.

What if I can’t do this?

What if I can’t relax and enjoy it?

What if I’m as terrible in bed as Kevin — and before Kevin, Jackson — said I am?

What if I can’t find the balance between demanding and boring?

That other Mary Sue had a lot more experience than me.

What if I burst into tears again, and he ends up just feeling sorry for me?

What if he just feels sorry for me right now?

What if this is a pity fuck?

Maybe I should just take whatever fucks I can get.

I certainly wasn’t expecting to get any fucks at all.

Does he have condoms? Will I have to bring out the ones from my knapsack? It’s right there in the foot well since I haven’t bothered to get a purse on this trip.

What will he think of me, going around with two condoms in my bag?

I remind myself that he liked me just fine when I had five condoms in my bag.

Other Mary Sue just trotted them out like it was nothing for a woman to carry condoms around.

Well… no. Actually she didn’t, did she? She looked to see if he was judging her. A little test that he passed.

In fact, she did that more than once, and he passed most of the time. She had reasons for trusting him.

I can trust him.

But can I trust me?

What if I freeze?

When we get to Alex’s, he parks the car and turns to me.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“About a dozen times,” I admit.

“And where are you now?”

“I’m back at ‘yes.’”

“Mary Sue…”

“Look,” I say. “The voice that says, ‘no’ has a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t, most of them boiling down to the distinct possibility that I’ll be a colossal disappointment. For the last decade, sex has been… a chore — one that I’ve been told repeatedly I perform inadequately. It’s no wonder I’m nervous. The voice that says, ‘yes’ has only one reason — I want you. But it feels like the best reason.

“I’ve been wandering this desert for so long and you’re an oasis. You’re gentle breezes sighing through the date palms. You’re cool, sweet water. You’re beautiful tapestries and thick carpets and a soft bed.

“And I don’t know if I know how to enjoy those things after battling the sand and the sun and the freezing nights for so long. And I won’t know if I don’t try.”

Alex leans over and strokes my cheek.

“The things you say sometimes.” He undoes his seat belt and comes around to my side of the car just as I’m getting out. “I want you to promise me that we’ll stop if your mind changes again, alright?”

He takes my hand.

I hold up the other hand with three fingers pressed together. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

“I hope you have condoms in that bag. I’m not 100 percent sure that I have one,” he says as we walk to the house.

“A Scout is always prepared,” I say, grinning.

“I’m sure they are,” he replies, unlocking the door.

The living room looks exactly the same as when I last saw it. Decorating is still clearly not a priority.

Alex takes my jacket and gestures toward the sofa. I kick off my boots and sit down with my feet tucked under me.

I watch him as he hangs up our jackets and walks over to one of the massive bookcases.

Okay, I watch his ass. Can you blame me?

He grabs a small, carved box off the shelf and takes out a joint and a lighter. He sits next to me and lights the joint, takes a small toke, and hands it to me.

I haven’t smoked pot since I married Kevin, because of course Kevin disapproved. Not that he disapproved of all drugs — he just considered weed “trashy.” So I have no idea how I’m going to react to it.

Jesus, I really hate how I let him run my life.

For what feels like the 100th time tonight, I banish Kevin from my mind. I wonder if I’m ever going to get to just enjoy things without having to first deal with all the ways he’s tainted them.

“Were you really a Girl Scout?”

“I was,” I say. “I did Brownies and Junior Scouts. But I decided not move up to Cadettes.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“There was a girl in my school who made me kind of nervous. She was in Scouts too, but not my troop. However, there was only one Cadette troop in town, so we would have been together, and it was a little… overwhelming to me.”

“Overwhelming?”

“I was twelve. She was the first girl I was ever sexually attracted to. We had swimming together. She was… very unself-conscious in the showers, if you catch my drift.”

I’m smiling as I tell this. I haven’t thought about Elise in years. Even in high school, she had zero modesty in the showers. She also had perfect, freckled skin and perfect, creamy breasts and a perfect, salmon-pink quim – which I saw once when she was bending over to wrap her hair in a towel.

Alex laughs. “I can see why that would be a bit much to deal with at twelve.”

“I had no idea what was going on, of course. It took me years to figure it out.”

I’ve been watching Alex’s hands as we pass the joint back and forth. They’re gorgeous hands — big enough to cup my entire breast. They’re strong yet graceful and expressive. And either I’m smitten or the pot’s getting to me. Possibly both.

I can feel my knots coming unraveled.

Anyway, I haven’t partaken in forever, but then again, I haven’t had a love-bite in forever either. Obviously, whatever happened on my previous jumps had had their effects on my body, and I smoked fairly often then.

Still, I take only a little, and give myself time to note how I’m feeling.

I’m a bit less stressed out — that’s how I’m feeling. I mean, I’m still nervous as hell, but I don’t actually feel like I might be sick anymore.

That’s good. I stop there. I don’t want to be buzzed. I only need to shut down a couple of neurons.

Apparently, Alex feels the same way. We leave most of the joint unsmoked.

We’ve fallen silent, which is something we never do. It felt fine at first, but now I’m wondering if I’m supposed to say or do something.

What comes next? Kissing? Nudity? Do we make out on the couch for awhile? How does this work? Do we just get up, go into the bedroom, strip, and climb into bed? Yeah, none of that seems awkward.

Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m not a virgin. I wasn’t a virgin before Kevin, or even Jackson. I must have gone from clothed and cuddling to naked and orgasming before, right? Was it this weird back then? Maybe it was easier when there was a time constraint. I mean, it’s not like I have a curfew now. Or concerned parents to call.

“I should call Elliot,” I say.

Oooo, nice _non sequitur_.

“I mean, I don’t want him to worry.”

Alex chuckles. “No, of course not. The phone’s right over there.”

I get up and go over to the little table that holds the phone. I dial Elliot’s number.

I get the machine.

“Hey, Elliot, I’m…” I’m what? Am I going to sleep here? It seems presumptuous to tell Elliot that I will when I never discussed it with Alex, but what else would I be doing? Alex and I have always slept together when we’ve “slept together.” Does any of that count as precedent? Alex wouldn’t fuck me and then — what? Call me a cab? Yeah, that doesn’t really sound like Alex. “… staying at Alex’s tonight. I’ll probably go straight to the hotel in the morning, but I’ll see you after work. Uh… this is Mary Sue, by the way.”

When I hang up, Alex is standing beside me. He wraps those big-graceful-sexy hands around my skull and kisses me thoroughly, sucking my tongue into his mouth, and humming/growling in response. When he’s done, he takes my hand and leads me toward his bedroom.

That answers that, I guess.

I grab the knapsack with my free hand and follow.

When we get there, he turns on a small lamp on the table next to the bed. I’m guessing it’s a three-way because nobody should read in light that low. He opens the drawer on the table and takes out a condom. He sets it on top of the table, then he takes my glasses off my face and sets them on the table next to the lamp. I toss my bag onto a chair.

He holds his hand out to me again, and I step into his space where it’s warm and it smells like him, and where there are more kisses waiting for me.

Was kissing always this good, and I had just forgotten?

I want to touch him. And guess what? I do. I can do that. I touch the soft curls at the back of his neck. I trace the curve of his ear, and stroke his jaw. It’s so smooth. He must have shaved before he came to get me. I find that incredibly endearing.

And here’s the thing — I’m pretty sure I was meant to find it endearing.

So I’m standing here, in Alex’s bedroom, kissing and touching him, and coming to the realization that he went out of his way to impress me.

How many times has he done that?

Other me never even noticed. I feel a little smug, to tell the truth, at having seen something she didn’t.

She didn’t know everything after all.

As we continue to kiss, I let my hand roam down the front of Alex’s shirt, taking in the crisp texture of the cotton and the curve of his muscles underneath.

Alex takes my hand and lays it on the first buttoned button on his shirt.

I do remember this — how I unbuttoned his shirt that first night — and it’s a bit thrilling that he wants me to do that again. But you know what’s even more thrilling? Getting him to say it.

So I leave my hand there, as if I’m clueless.

“Mary Sue?”, he says against my jaw as he kisses his way toward my ear.

“Mmm?”

“Could you get those for me? My hands are busy.”

His hands _are_ busy. One of them is wound through my hair, and the other is spread out on the small of my back.

“The buttons?” I ask innocently. Oh, this is fun!

“Yes, the bloody buttons,” he growls, and it’s as if someone’s touched a vibrator to my nipples. “ _Please_.”

The magic word. I shiver a little and push the mother-of-pearl disk through its fabric hole. He isn’t wearing an undershirt, and I let the backs of my first three fingers graze his exposed skin for a moment before moving on to the next button…

…and sliding it sloooowly through the hole.

The next one is right over his stomach. I can feel the movement of his breathing as I work it loose.

The one after that is just above the button of his jeans. I stroke the sleek line of fur there before nudging the button clear of its buttonhole.

I undo the top button of his jeans and pull his shirt free.

I free that last button and grab the two sides of his shirt, curling my hands into fists as I lick over Alex’s collarbones, delicately bite his pectoral muscles, and suck at his nipple.

“Oh god, Mary Sue,” he says, his hand tightening in my hair.

I am utterly fucking delighted at the prospect of him talking during sex. I hope he keeps it up.

I give his other nipple a little love too.

“Yes,” he says. “Your mouth is— _oh_!”

I guess I’m not destined to find out what my mouth is at this moment. Alex has the hem of my blouse in his hands. He pulls it over my head, making it temporarily impossible to minister to his nipple. And once he’s tossed the blouse onto the chair with my bag, he goes back to kissing me some more.

And that’s fine with me. I’m loving this — relearning the taste and feel and smell of him. It’s soothing. I feel that kind of safety that makes you feel reckless.

Well, a little reckless.

I push his shirt back and let it fall. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss the dusting of freckles on his right shoulder.

“Good?” he asks. I know he’s not suddenly concerned about the quality of his shoulder freckles.

“Very good,” I assure him.

He unhooks my bra and pulls it down my arms, freeing my breasts.

My nipples immediately want to know what’s going on.

What’s going on is Alex, who kneels on the floor and takes the left one into his mouth.

I whimper.

His lips and tongue pull pleasure through my nerves like thick honey through a straw.

I whine.

I shudder. My nervous system is not used to this kind of workout.

I’m not sure I can feel this good and still keep my legs under me. Even while clutching Alex’s shoulders.

I guess he figures that out, because he stands, scoops me up in his arms, and carries me to his bed.

I have to hand it to him. He really knows how to work a moment.

I’m laughing as he drops me in the middle of the bed on top of the fuzzy blanket with the satin binding that I suddenly realize was on the bed when I (she) stayed here before. He leans over me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I appear to be fresh out of bodices for you to rip.”

“Does that make me the dashing young rakehell?” he asks.

“Mmm. You’re very good at the accent.”

“I’ve had loads of practice,” he says.

“The hair’s right too.” I reach up and tug at one longish lock.

And he smiles at me.

Fondly.

And I hope that I never forget this.

Alex seems intent on making it memorable. In the next moment, his mouth is on my breast again.

Well, he certainly hasn’t forgotten what I like.

He might actually remember better than I do.

It’s been awhile since anyone’s done this to me — _for_ me. But I’m not thinking of everything I’ve missed. I’m thinking of how much I love this and how intense the pleasure is. And how I want more.

How voracious I am. How _starved_ for this.

It’s almost intoxicating — being free to want so much.

And I’m aware that Alex is enjoying sucking-licking-biting my nipples. I can tell by the way he closes his eyes, by the way he escalates the sensations he’s pulling from my body, by the way he presses his erection into my thigh, by the way he answers the incoherent noises and the “yes”es and the “Alex”es that I’m gasping and crying out. I’ve braced one hand on the headboard above me so that I can press myself against his mouth, my other hand clenched in his hair, pulling his head against my breast.

I have no balance, no temperance. Warm golden light spills through me, and I’m hungry for it. I want him to keep this up until it fills me and streams out of my eyes and mouth and fingertips.

Until I come just from his mouth around my nipple.

But I don’t. My nipples get sore first. There’s a price to pay for being too greedy, although I can’t find it in me to regret it.

I tug at his hair until he lifts his head and kisses me. His mouth is warm and swollen from sucking at me — from pulling the blood to the surface of his tongue and lips — and my heart stutters.

Alex wraps his arms around my waist and rolls us over until I’m lying on top of him, my beleaguered breasts smushed against his chest.

“You are such a delight,” he says as he strokes my cheek.

I grin at him.

“Right back atcha,” I say.

I really have no words to tell him what this means to me — to be sharing this.

So I sit back on my heels, and I watch his face while I undo the rest of the buttons on his jeans.

I can’t quite figure out what it is about the way he looks at me that makes me feel the opposite of how I’d expect to feel. His gaze is intense, but I don’t feel self-conscious. I don’t feel like I’m on display or being judged. I feel… “desired” isn’t quite right, although I’m sure he does desire me. I feel like we’re communicating some unspoken understanding, like we’re co-conspirators in some scheme to steal what’s rightfully ours.

I feel… connected to him.

I want to try doing something for him. I want to see if I have it in me to… take care of him a little.

“Lift your ass, Alex,” I say, and haul his jeans and shorts off his body.

I remember what he showed me (her, me, us) the last time we made love. It seems like as good a plan as any.

I lay my thumb against his lips, and he opens his mouth to let it in. I place it against his tongue, being careful not to scrape his palate with my nail.

I let him get my thumb nice and wet before I pull it out of his mouth and rub a slick little circle around the head of his cock.

Alex’s breathing stutters. “Christ,” he whispers.

With my other hand, I cup his balls, and roll them gently.

“Like this, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“Yes… _ah_ _!_ … like that.”

“And then like this?” I stroke the shaft of his cock — encouraging a few drops of pre-ejaculate from the tip, which I then catch under my circling thumb, smearing the wetness around and around and around that plump, velvet head.

“Sweet fuck, yes.”

I stroke him again, letting the folds of his foreskin slip up over his wet tip.

“Mary Sue,” he groans.

I lean forward and kiss him. I have to take my hand off his sac to do so, but I place it over his nipple instead. Sweet, stiff little thing — I roll it in the hollow of my palm.

He’s moving, thrusting slowly into my hand.

And I can’t believe I’m actually doing this — this thing that I’ve been told repeatedly that I’m awful at. I’m giving another person pleasure.

This person.

Alex.

I feel an enormous tenderness as I’m watching him.

I also feel his hand on my thigh — against my bare skin. He’s slipped his hand under my skirt, and he’s stroking the soft skin of my inner thigh. Higher and higher, until his fingertips are rubbing the elastic on the gusset of my underwear.

Well, what did I expect?

In a second the euphoria is gone, replaced by the fear that I’m going to be found lacking.

All that warm expansiveness shrivels and cools.

“Mary Sue?” Alex’s hand stills.

I realize that I’ve also stopped moving, although my hand is still on his cock.

This is different, I try to tell myself. This isn’t Kevin, thrusting his hand between my thighs, asking me if I’m wet yet, complaining when I’m inevitably not, rubbing my clit with his dry fingers while I stiffen against the pain, and finally reaching for the lube that I keep on my side of the bed because he prefers “a wet fuck.”

“Frigid bitch,” I hear his voice in my head. “I should’ve just bought a fuck doll. It would’ve cost me less.”

The other me didn’t have this problem. But she’s not here, is she? I’m here, and I’m… faulty.

“Mary Sue, what’s wrong?” That line between his eyebrows is deeper than I’ve ever seen it.

My hand is clammy, and I let go of his cock. “I… uhm… I have a problem… getting wet.”

Shame at being inadequate and even more shame at feeling ashamed of something I can’t even control.

“I see,” says Alex. “Well, we don’t have to have intercourse if you don’t want…”

I’m trying to get breath around all of the frozen screams tearing at my throat and lungs. I _do_ want.

But I’m losing my chance.

“…Or there’s KY in the bedside drawer. Or my mouth is available.”

Mouth? He…? That’s a thing lovers do. And he’s offering, isn’t he?

I remember then that we didn’t always have sex. Well, we did — it just wasn’t always… tab A in slot B sex. I relax a little. This is still salvageable.

“Or…” He slips a couple of fingers into my panties and strokes, very softly, the spot where my labia meet over my vagina.

It’s slick.

He holds up two shiny digits.

“Or your _bastard_ of an ex-husband is such a lousy lay that rivers dam themselves in his presence.”

I just stare at his fingers and start to giggle. I hadn’t even considered that.

Alex pulls me down and kisses me.

“Honestly, sweetheart. You’re just about the most sodden woman I’ve ever known. And even if you were drier than my sense of humour, I assure you that I’d be fully and happily committed to making this work.”

“Your sense of humor’s not that dry,” I say.

“Shhh. I’m British. We have a reputation to uphold.”

“Aren’t you guys the ones who came up with the Ministry of Silly Walks?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

So I do. How could I not?

Alex’s hand is under my skirt again, tugging my underwear down. I shift around to make it easier.

“You know,” he says, soft and low in my ear, “now that I think about it, I think I ought to give your cunt a proper licking whether it needs it or not.”

If there were an Angel of Sex, it would sound exactly like Alexander Dane talking dirty.

“The things you say sometimes.” I’m trying for insouciant, but my voice is just a little too ragged for that.

“Tell me you’d like that,” he says.

“I would,” I say. “I’d like that. Your mouth is…” But I’m losing my train of thought as he kneels between my legs, lifts my skirt, and starts kissing up the inside of my left thigh. I don’t think I have to tell you that it’s been a very long time since anyone’s gone down on me.

And Alex makes excellent work of it, I must say.

He must be very diligent in his elocution exercises.

It’s very… It feels like…

Like this —

When I was a kid, my grandparents bought an old farmhouse in the middle of a fruit farm. Most of the land was later purchased by a neighboring farm, but my grandparents still had some raspberry bushes, a couple of cherry and pear trees, and a huge, self-pollinating plum tree that grew beautiful, dark red plums.

The best way to eat a plum is to pick it at about two or three in the afternoon when it’s been in the sun all day. Don’t even bother to wash it, because your granddad is old and can’t be bothered to spray it anyway. Just bite into that sun-warmed fruit, and lick and slurp at the hot juice, trying to keep it from staining your new peasant blouse which you are unwisely wearing while picking plums.

Having Alex’s mouth around my clitoris is like having the golden, sun-hot flesh of a freshly-picked afternoon plum around my tongue.

It’s all heat and messy juice and sweetness.

And when I’m very close, I stop him, and he sits back. And just like I did when I was much younger and standing in my grandparent’s back yard, he swipes the juice from his chin.

He crawls up my body and kisses me.

“Why did you stop me?” he asks.

“It’s…” I’m about to say “stupid,” but it’s not. It’s just something I want. I don’t need to justify it (She wouldn’t.) — I just need to ask for it.

“I want you to be holding me when I come,” I say.

He smiles, soft and lopsided. Then he gives me another kiss.

“Alright,” he says.

He sits up, kneeling on his heels almost in the middle of the bed, and leans over toward the bedside table. He grabs the condom with his fingertips, opens the package, and rolls the it onto his cock.

He holds a hand out to me. “Come on, then,” he says, still smiling.

I take his hand and let him pull me up. I pull my skirt off over my head and start to straddle his lap, but he stops me.

“Mm, no. Other way,” he says. “With your back to me.”

Oo-kaay.

I manage to get my knees on either side of his — mostly gracefully. I lean way forward in order to make it easier for him to slip, thick and solid, into my quim.

He hits all the right nerves on that long, smooth glide in.

I bite my lip and moan. The soft fabric of his duvet brushes my nipples as I lean on my elbows and press my forehead into the bed. He puts a hand between my shoulder blades and pets along my spine. He grabs both halves of my ass and gives them a good squeeze.

Then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me back until I’m sitting in his lap.

This is… I love this.

Alex has one arm across my belly and the other under my breasts.

His mouth is inches from my right ear.

“Almost forgot,” he murmurs, and the sound buzzes around my spine.

He leans over to the table again, keeping one hand on my hip to steady me. When he sits up, he has my glasses. Well, he wouldn’t be the first person to like that librarian look.

“Put these on,” he says.

I mean, what else am I going to do with them?

He kisses the back of my neck while I don my spectacles.

Holding me tight, Alex begins to move — a slow, easy rhythm that sets heavy waves of pleasure rolling through my body.

Really, this position is genius — well worth the effort. It has that thick pressure of rear entry, but I’m able to control the depth, and there’s Alex’s warm body against my back and his strong arms holding me close.

And his hands — one somewhat extravagantly-sized hand cups my breast and the other pets the fur of my mound.

And I can hear every tiny sound he makes, which is just heady stuff.

I've closed my eyes in order to better concentrate on all of these things which are way more interesting than Alex’s grey bedroom.

“No. No, Mary Sue,” he says. “That won’t do. Open your eyes.”

“Why?” I ask, blinking a little. “Oh.”

About three or four feet from the end of the bed sits a long, low dresser with a large mirror above it.

We are almost perfectly framed in that mirror.

I look like…

… like a zaftig old lady with quirky grooming habits and messy grey-streaked hair having a great time, honestly.

And why wouldn’t I be having a great time with someone as beautiful as Alex under me?

And around me?

And looking at me like that?

He’s watching me in the mirror as he kisses my neck and shoulder.

There’s a lot of… admiration, I guess, in the way he looks at me.

I could entertain the idea that he really does have a crush on me.

I could entertain ideas far more outlandish and dangerous than that, to tell the truth.

I reach up and behind myself and stroke his hair.

He holds two fingers to my lips.

“Nice and wet, please,” he says — sweetly.

And what can I say to that? I take one, then the other into my mouth and lick and suck them both.

He presses them between my other lips, on either side of my clit — just the way I like it.

I’m touched that he remembers.

He strokes me with his fingers in the same rhythm as his cock gliding in and out of my quim and each movement ratchets me a little closer to orgasm.

“Do you see?” he asks. “Do you see how beautiful you are, Mary Sue?”

I see how beautiful I am to him anyway.

I’m more damaged than one night of amazing sex will fix, but I do see that much.

And I’m grateful.

And touched.

And then I’m coming.

 

For once, I don’t wake up at three a.m. I have no idea if Alex does, but he does wake up at four-thirty while I’m putting my skirt on. He stands behind me, all sleep-warm and minty in his pajama bottoms. I guess he did wake up at some point if his teeth are brushed and he’s put on pants.

“Of course you have spare knickers in your bag,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders and kissing my neck.

“Of course I do. I wasn’t raised by wolverines, you know.” I turn and put my arms around his waist. He leans in for a kiss, but I duck and hide my face against his chest. “My mouth is disgusting,” I say. “Let me brush my teeth first.”

“I’m guessing you also have a toothbrush in there,” he says.

“Duh.”

“Alright, then. Get on with it.” He kisses the top of my head and squeezes my butt.

I put on my bra and fish my travel toothbrush and a stick of deodorant out of my bag.

“Do you just carry your entire life around in that?” he asks.

“It has some kind of science mojo on it. I’m afraid I’ve never really had the chance to get the full explanation, but it goes where and _when_ I go. In fact, it was the first sign I had that I wasn’t completely delusional when I suddenly had… a few years worth of new memories shoved into my head.”

I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a pee. I realize I also should have brought my comb. Alex is no longer in the bedroom when I get back there, so I grab my comb and go looking for him.

I find him in the kitchen, fully clothed and making toast. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me. The kettle clicks off.

“How do you like it?” he asks.

“Oh, I like it fine,” I answer, kissing him again.

“Your tea, madam. How do you like your tea?

“This early in the morning, I like it strong and sweet and plenty milky.”

He goes to work on the tea and I go to the living room to work on my hair. He finishes up about the same time I do.

“Any idea what you’re going to do today?” he asks as we eat.

I shake my head. “Not really. I’ve got a pretty good idea what Steve’s plan is — do enough damage to the hotel close enough to the con date to make relocating impossible. That’s made easier because he knows that some or all of the sprinklers won’t come on.”

“You don’t think that the fire department simply discovered the sabotage and closed the hotel?” he asks.

“No. Fire departments prefer to work with businesses on this sort of thing. Creating an adversarial relationship with public safety isn’t in anyone’s best interests. I’m pretty sure my source got that part wrong.”

“It could create a scandal, though.”

I think about the news reports in the wake of the hotel fire that will happen in Puerto Rico. There were tons of warnings about the safety systems being crap and even warnings that arson was imminent, but the thing was still nearly at capacity when it burned.

“It might make a few people skittish, but most people don’t do a safety checklist every time they book a room.”

Most people don’t. I mean, even I’m not that anxious.

But…

Some people _are_ that anxious and they do have a checklist, don’t they?

And one of those people is on the Quest Con Planning Committee. Cece bellyached about her often enough in the early years.

Sharon… something.

If I can get her panties good and knotted, it might just be the lever that pries Quest Con out of the Golden State and into the waiting arms of the Loevinger Institute.

And the Loevinger is new enough to require sprinklers.

I could bypass Gath’gor and his nefarious plans without even committing arson — which would no doubt be a huge relief to Elliot and Alex. I just need to get some proof.

Today’s the day to do it too. Steve doesn’t work on weekends.

“I take it from your expression, you’ve hit upon an idea,” says Alex.

“I have, as a matter of fact. Do you happen to own a camera?”

 

And that’s how I find myself up a ladder in the main ballroom of the Golden State Hotel a few hours later with something called a Cannon Snappy in one hand and my Leatherman multi-tool in the other.

I’m about to set off a sprinkler. The way I figure it, the sprinkler will either sit there and do nothing while I take snapshots of the inactivity, or it will dump a couple thousand gallons of water. I don’t know what freaks Sharon Davenport (I finally remembered her name) out, but I’m banking on either fire or mold doing the trick.

I’ve already taken several establishing shots.

And now it’s the moment of truth…

I stick the handle of the multi-tool next to the glass tube that holds the liquid that would expand and break the tube in the heat generated by a real fire, setting off the sprinkler.

A sharpish rap from a piece of case-hardened steel also works.

Nothing happens.

I take a couple more pictures, climb down, sweep up the glass fragments, and put away the ladder.

The moment of truth was decidedly anti-climactic.

I finish out my shift and meet Elliot at the back entrance of the hotel.

“So,” I say, “know any good one-hour photo places?”

We have the photos developed and in Sharon Davenport’s mailbox with a suitably Deep-Throatish typed letter by three o’clock.

The Snappy takes pretty decent photos. Certainly better than my mom’s old Instamatic.

By six-thirty Sunday morning, the entire hotel staff is buzzing with the news about some woman who showed up the night before claiming to be an organizer for some science fiction convention or something and demanding to see the sprinklers in the ballroom.

Turns out, one of them had been activated, but there was no water.

I know! Shocking!

Dolores is sure that guests will stay away in droves and she’ll lose her job.

Well, Dolores can’t be right all the time.

As far as I know, there was a short-lived brouhaha before the entire incident was almost completely swept under the rug, and business went on as usual until the hotel was knocked down by the new owner a few years later.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself.

Like I said, we have the photos developed and delivered by three. In all that running around, though, we skip lunch.

“Have you eaten anything today?” asks Elliot.

“Um… a PayDay — I figured the nuts would give me some energy — a piece of toast, and something Alex refers to as ‘builders’ tea,’” I say.

“Right,” says Elliot.

We head over to the place with the orange rolls.

Their roast beef is as good as the turkey. The peas are better than the asparagus.

The orange rolls are always divine.

“Are you spending the night at Alex’s tonight?” he asks.

“I haven’t been invited to,” I say. “Did you want to have… company over tonight?”

“No, but I’m going out. I just didn’t want to put you through the trauma of having to leave a message on my answering machine again.”

“God, I hate those things.”

Elliot laughs.

“What?” I say. “Most people hate them.”

“Yeah, but I guess I just assumed someone from the future would be used to them.”

I shake my head. “People in the past were used to smallpox. That doesn’t mean that they weren’t quick to seize a viable alternative.”

“The answering machine is smallpox?”

“Not quite,” I say. “And I don’t think we’ll eliminate the need for voice messages entirely. But they are the communication of last resort.”

“You do know you didn’t really answer my original question, right?”

“I don’t currently have plans with Alex, but if he asks me to, I’ll spend the night at his place again tonight. But what about your love life, Mr. I’m-Never-Home-So-People-Have-To-Leave-Messages-On-My-Bloody-Answering-Machine Spiegel?”

“Bloody?”

I narrow my eyes menacingly.

Elliot just snorts. “I really was visiting friends on Tuesday night.”

I cock an eyebrow.

“His name is Casey,” says Elliot. “We’re taking it slow.”

“Yeah, two dates in one week is practically glacial,” I say.

“Three, but who’s counting?”

When we get back to Elliot’s, Alex is there. We give him the lowdown on the day’s activities.

“I’m relieved that you didn’t have to commit a felony,” he says.

“Actually,” I tell him, “putting something in someone’s mailbox is a federal offense, so I’m still, you know, a dangerous outlaw. I hope you don’t get your green card revoked for consorting with the criminal element.”

“Me too, since I have every intention of continuing to consort with you. So what’s next?”

“We wait until Sharon Davenport throws enough of a fit to give the rest of the committee a headache,” I say. “Then you come swooping in with the answer to all of their prayers.”

I do end up going home with Alex. I manage to put together a _Salade Lyonnaise_ for a light supper. Alex’s kitchen is almost as bad as Elliot’s. I’m really beginning to miss Frank’s guest house.

We talk, of course. Hell, we barely shut up whenever we’re together. Alex tells me that he did a pilot this year, but it wasn’t picked up. He starts rehearsals for _Sherlock Holmes_ next week. I don’t recognize the name of the theater because I know diddly about the live drama scene in L.A.

I like listening to him talk about his work. He clearly loves it, and I totally understand the thrill he gets when he feels like he’s really connecting with the audience. He’s looking forward to doing live theater again, but he’s also looking forward to the next TV show.

I put all _my_ acting lessons to work not letting on what I know about his future.

Alex gets a phone call from Fred while I’m brushing my teeth before bed.

Sharon has called all of the organizers. To say that she’s upset would be to grossly understate it. Or, at least, that’s what Alex reports to me once he’s off the phone.

“I detected the slightest hint of apprehension in his tone, so it must be dire,” he says. “Apparently, not only does Mrs. Davenport wish to withdraw, she’s convinced another committee member of the wisdom of doing so as well.”

“It’s time to call Cecelia Fleischman,” I say.

I pull out one of my 1999 dresses and put it on. I explain to Alex that this might be enough to send me back and I don’t want to be naked when I get there.

He nods, then sets the phone back on its cradle.

He crosses the room and puts his arms around me, then he cups my head in those gorgeous hands, and he kisses me.

I’m pretty sure neither I nor the other Mary Sue have ever been kissed like this before. There’s something desperate and needy about it, and at the same time, something generous… something… tender and affectionate. It steals my breath, and for a moment, it fills me with light.

He pulls away, just an inch or two. He looks at me as if willing me to understand him.

“I hope your life goes back to what it was,” he says. “I hope you never give that bastard the time of day, Mary Sue. But even if it doesn’t work out that way, I want you to know that you amaze me. You always have.”

“Alex… I…” I kiss him back.

Then I hold him very tight and I whisper in his ear, “Thank you, sweet friend.”

When he pulls away from me, he’s smiling.

“Alright then,” he says, and picks up the phone.

He talks to Cece for about fifteen minutes... during which I do absolutely no disappearing.

It’s umm… not such a big letdown, to tell the truth.

Alex tells Cece about having run into Carson, yada, the Loevinger Institute, yada, state-of-the-art sprinkler system, yada yada. They agree to meet for lunch tomorrow. Alex will call Carson first thing in the morning.

Alex hangs up, takes my hand, and leads me into the bedroom.

 

In the morning, he kisses me (on the mouth, on the neck, on the new mark he left just below my shoulder blade) and makes me toast and tea again. I tease out my snarls while I eat, standing in the living room, kissing him between bites. We hold hands in the car. He kisses me as he drops me off at the hotel.

We don’t say goodbye.

Everything was said last night, I guess. But we both know that the best thing would be for there to be no reprieve today.

Right, I have work to do.

Anyway, the general manager, several other managers, and the owner of the hotel are all here today. An entire convention is a pretty big chunk of change to be losing, and it appears that Sharon Davenport made sure to stipulate in the contract that the Golden State was up-to-date on all current fire safety standards (among other things). So the owner’s on the phone with his lawyer trying to find out if their agreement has now been rendered null and void.

I hear all of this through Dolores, who gets it from Brenda, so I take it with a sizable grain of salt, but “the bosses” are antsier than a meeting of the introvert society.

Then a news crew shows up.

The manager stands in the middle of the tastefully decorated lobby, and explains that the hotel voluntarily installed a sprinkler system for the safety of the guests and their property, and that, despite having passed all safety inspections, it did appear that a single faulty sprinkler head had been discovered, and that they will be addressing the problem immediately because the health and safety of their guests and staff are of utmost importance and – you get the picture.

I’m on my last room of the day — one of the penthouse suites — thinking that at least I’ll be happy to never see this decrepit Hoover again, when I hear the door bang shut behind me.

I turn around, but I know what I’m going to see.

It’s Gath’gor.

I know he can’t just attack me, but I’m not real thrilled with the situation anyway.

“So, Mary Sue Vance, or is it Zimmerman? — I suppose you think you’re very clever. Well, all you’ve done is save me a lot of trouble.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about… uhh Steve, is it?” I say.

He ignores me. He saunters around the room twirling his keys in a way that I’m sure is supposed to be menacing.

“I was all set to smoke out the — what do you call them? Geeks? — but no. Frank Ross got wind of it. I suppose he thought he’d lose money, or someone might stop worshiping him for five minutes, so he sent his little snoop down here to sniff around. And what does she do? She gets the whole convention shut down for me.”

Uh, sure. That’s what happened.

“Huh? Who’s Frank Ross?”

“Oh you know, the guy I used to do such a great impression of?”

I shrug. “If you say so.”

“Listen, bitch! You tell Frank not to feel too bad. He had no idea who he was up against here. There’s more going on than either of your puny minds can comprehend!”

“Fuck off,” I say because I’m just all about the brilliant repartee.

He just tips his head back and does a full-on villain laugh — just “ha ha _hah_!” — like that.

I nearly lose it.

But, by god, four years of playing “Darling, If You Love Me” conquers the urge.

“Listen, Steve. Why don’t you go take a long walk off a short pier before I report you for harassment?”

“Fine,” he says. “Keep playing your little game.” (The guy has serious size issues.) “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve won!” He’s won, but he’s all the way over by the window now.

“You’ve won?” I ask, stepping closer to him. “Then why are you still here?”

That does it. He’s suddenly not so sure what my puny little mind has comprehended.

I grab the keys and run for it.

Let me tell you, I am not a fast runner, but I get around the corner of the hallway before Gath’gor gets out of the room, and that buys me some time. I’ll never find the right key on this giant key ring, so I take out my key card. When I get to the door I want, I shove it in between the jamb and the edge of the door, praying that the damn latch was installed correctly.

I’m wiggling the card forward when Gath’gar comes around the corner. He’s about halfway down the corridor when the door suddenly pops open and swings away from me. I hesitate for just a second — I want Gath’gor to catch the door before it closes — then I run up the steps. Luckily, I’ve got size on my side here, and I put a little extra distance between us on the way up.

I hurl myself at the door at the top of the stairwell. This one isn’t locked from the inside. Once through, I spin around to the right and duck behind the little structure that houses the stairwell.

I’m standing with my back pressed to the wall. The ledge is less than three feet in front of me. I could spit off the side, if I, you know, had any spit. This building is only eighteen stories tall.

Only.

Three is about the limit of what I can handle. After four, they all look the same to me — too fucking high.

Gath’gor pops out a second later, and runs straight ahead, looking for me.

Don’t think, Mary Sue!

I take a deep breath and spin back to the left, slipping behind the door just before it closes.

I don’t know if Gath’gor saw me.

There is a sudden loud banging on the door.

Yeah, he saw me.

But the roof door automatically locks from the outside.

And Gath’gor didn’t think to put something in between the door and the jamb.

Because when it comes to sneaking onto rooftops — a skill I never thought I’d need — I apparently had a much better teacher than Gath’gor did.

I start shaking. Adrenaline, I inform myself.

I don’t know if Gath’gor would have figured out what my game was on his own, but I feel safer with him stuck on a roof while Alex and Cece do their business with Carson.

I walk carefully down the stairs and back to the room I was working on. I finish, pack up my cart, and head back to the break room. I change into my Jennifer Beals outfit in the bathroom and leave my uniform and the key ring on the cart.

I forget to punch out. Oops.

Elliot is waiting for me outside.

We get some lunch at a place that has cheeseburgers (at last!), and Elliot tells me that Alex called him earlier to inform him that he and Cece had an appointment to talk to Carson at noon.

It’s eleven-fifty when we head back to Elliot’s.

I don’t make it there.

As the golden sparkles engulf me, I say, “Thanks Elliot, for everything. Take care.”

Then Fred. Laliari.

And sharks.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary Sue ends up in an alternate timeline in which she has just divorced a psychologically and sexually abusive husband. She discusses some of the details -- including examples of gaslighting, shaming, and marital rape.
> 
>  
> 
> Songs!  
> The Commitments -- [Treat Her Right](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KoLP3AArnEI) (Roy Head and Gene Kurtz) -- It was so hard to pick just one. This is one of the best soundtracks in existence.  
> Willie Nelson -- [Darkness On the Face of the Earth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dhC0PsPIbm0)  
> Townes Van Zandt -- [Dead Flowers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2VgdtTRZhag) (Keith Richards and Mick Jagger) -- A little something from _The Big Lebowski_. Also, quite possibly the saltiest song ever written.  
> Irene Cara -- [Flashdance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILWSp0m9G2U) (Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey, Irene Cara)  
> Dexy's Midnight Runners -- [Come On Eileen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASwge9wc-eI) (Kevin Rowland, Jim Paterson and Billy Adams)


	8. Quest Con Thirteen -- 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine is broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All-in-all this chapter is fairly light on angst. Most of the stuff one might not want to just stumble across is in the short story. That contains mpreg (alien physiology -- no butt babies), forced pregnancy, and mentions of (fictional) genocide.

Want to hear the story of how I found out about Gayness?

It happened when I was about eight or nine. I’ve always been fascinated with romance. When I was a kid, falling in love seemed like the ultimate in Fun Things Adults Do. I was totally stoked for the time when I’d meet someone and we’d fall in love with each other and get married and they’d have to love me and be with me forever and give me affection whenever I wanted it.

Now, kids’ shows back in those days had very little in the way of romantic plots. Basically, Bugs Bunny putting on a dress in order to seduce Elmer Fudd was about it.

Now that I think about it, this may explain a few things.

Anyway, I had a very weird view of how romantic love worked because I was ten and imaginative as all get-out. I believed in cupids — the naked baby, _putti_ kind. I thought they were literally all over the place, but invisible. They’d shoot you, and the next person you saw, you’d fall in love with, and then you’d either get married or be miserable for the rest of your life due to unrequited passion.

That’s how it works, right? One or the other?

I believed that they were trying their best. Once they’d shot you, and you’d fallen in love, they’d shoot the object of your affections and — boom — love and marriage. Because marriage (and hugging and kissing whenever you wanted it) was always the end-game here. I mean, sure they screwed it up sometimes and then there’d be hijinks while they tried to sort things out, but it mostly went the way it was supposed to.

This led me to not understand a lot of things grown-ups said, like — “How could he love her?” What do you mean? The cupids just shot him and — boom!

Anyway, at some point it occurred to me that a cupid could shoot a guy, and he’d see another guy, and — boom — love and… And what? I’d never seen any weddings where there wasn’t a man and a woman. But no marriage = be miserable for the rest of your life, right?

I was perplexed.

So I asked my mom, “What happens if a guy falls in love with another guy?”

She… was not expecting that. But it was the Seventies and she was trying to be hip and sex-positive. And, to give her credit, she did much better then than she would when she found my porn stash a few years later.

“Well, that’s called being ‘gay,’” she said, keeping it cool.

Oh, this is a known phenomenon and there’s a word for it. I was learning stuff today.

“I thought ‘gay’ meant like, ‘happy,’” I said.

“Well, it does, but people don’t use it that way as much anymore. Nowadays it usually means a man who loves another man or a woman who loves another woman.”

Okay, yeah. I hadn’t really thought about the women angle, but that made sense.

“Or,” Mom went on, “gay women are called lesbians.”

That seemed like a neat word – fun to say.

“What are gay men called?” I asked.

“Just ‘gay men.’”

Kind of unfair, but for once the girls get the cool thing, so whatever.

“Okay, but what happens when two gay men fall in love?” I asked.

Now, in retrospect, my mom was totally panicking because her nine-year-old daughter who never asked questions about sex (because she already knew everything about sex because her mom told her, and she hasn’t figured out yet that her mom only told her about a third of it) was suddenly asking questions that could lead to a discussion about butt sex because she (my mom) totally forgot that she hasn’t really even fully explained procreation yet.

In other words, I had no idea that penises could go into vaginas, so wondering where penises go during gay sex was the furthest thing from my mind. I just wanted to know if they both wore tuxes or if it was more of a Bugs/Elmer sort of thing.

“Uhmm… what do you mean? They just fall in love and... they’re gay,” said Mom.

Huh? That’s it? Won’t they be miserable for the rest of their lives that way?

“Don’t they get married?” I asked.

“No, that’s silly.”  Her relief was nearly tangible.

“Why is that silly?”

“It’s against the law. A man can’t marry a man and a woman can’t marry a woman.”

I was aghast. They made a law against it?! Like, the whole government just decided this was such a big deal that there needed to be a law against it? Like someone can help what happens in the getting-shot-by-cupids scenario.

“That’s not fair,” I said.

“Sure it’s fair.”

The hell?

“No, it’s not. People should marry who they want.”

“Gay people can’t have babies together, so they can’t get married,” said Mom.

I could feel the are-you-nuts? look on my face. I could see it on hers.

By that point, I knew that my mom sometimes spouted nonsense — things that completely contradicted my teachers, for instance. I didn’t know why she did it, I just accepted it and shrugged it off. But this was just so blatantly unfair I figured she must be playing with me.

“Two men really can’t get married?”

“No, of course not.”

I thought about it.

“That’s not fair,” I repeated, rock-solid in my convictions.

I still am. It’s probably one the few times that ten-year-old me got it 100% right.

37-year-old me may question why anyone would actually _want_ to get married, but if you do, you should absolutely be able to.

It’s just pure-and-simple fair.

And I think that’s what bothered 22-year-old me the most about Quest Con 6 and the whole slash debate — I really do not _get_ the other side. I completely fail to understand how the simple presence of queerness makes something automatically 100 times more _adult_. I mean, I’m not stupid. I get that for most people it does make perfect sense — it’s incredibly obvious.

But for me, the whole argument is about as logical as demonizing people over their favorite ice cream flavors.

Except, you know, with far more impact on the people who prefer rainbow sherbet.

Particularly after I figured out that I also like a rainbow sherbet myself, now and again.

And that I prefer to have more than one scoop of ice cream in my dish, if you know what I mean.

I mean that I’m polyamorous — that’s what I mean.

 _Galaxy Quest_ was the first show I’d ever seen that said a lot of things could be different in the future — that the people who are routinely excluded in our society would be routinely included someday. You could be Black or white or Asian or female or Other and valued for your contributions. Your entire thought process could be completely alien to everyone around you, and your colleagues would accept and celebrate that difference. And it showed characters with active, non-monogamous sex lives — one of them a female character, no less — who deserved the same respect as characters who remained utterly chaste. And that meant so much to me as a teenager trying to sort out a balance between being true to myself and being ethical toward others.

Of course, there weren’t any openly LGBT characters on _Galaxy Quest_ — although Lazarus lets it drop every once in a while that he doesn’t get the Human obsession with gender. In “The Lights of Aldea,” he even says that he finds it puzzling that Humans presume the gender of someone’s spouse without even asking. In an interview, Frank Ross said he didn’t think that we’d “have so many hang-ups about sexuality” in the future.

So to see the whole fandom fighting about it was… a severe disappointment.

How could anyone have missed the main point of the show so completely?

The other fans had seemed like my tribe. Quest Con was the place where I could expect to be understood. Finding out that there was a sizable contingent who considered me the fringe element — or worse, a loose thread that needed to be cut off — was devastating.

And the whole thing with Margot? It was almost worse.

Because I understand what it’s like to fear Hell, even after you stop believing in the teachings of Christianity. I’d been through that process of slowly growing in the conviction that, whatever Christ himself may have taught or believed, the tenets of the Christian faith created an environment where my soul can’t thrive.

But fear dies hard. And those old horror stories prey on you.

Or rather I should say, they prey on _me_. They sneak in with their “What ifs?” What if everything I fear most is waiting for me to die so that it can torture me forever? And I have one hell of an imagination, so I can visualize that torment pretty clearly.

And apparently they preyed on Margot too. She also had one hell of an imagination.

She had been my living proof that I wasn’t just going through a phase — that I could get older and still love the things I loved, still enjoy my sexuality, still maintain my convictions — that I wouldn’t necessarily become a dried-up and joyless old harpy who spends her time complaining about how awful everyone is for daring to have fun or fall in love.

Looking back on it, I may have had some… uh… notions about aging that weren’t terribly enlightened. But at the time, I grieved the loss of the person I most wanted to grow up to be.

 

I didn’t go to another Quest Con for seven years, but I wasn’t exactly out of fandom entirely. I was still on a bunch of mailing lists. I still corresponded with Cece and Shondra. But schlepping my cookies all the way out to L.A.? Let’s just say it didn’t appeal to me.

It didn’t help that I was poor as dirt, mind you. It was hard enough making my half (or third or quarter) of the rent, let alone saving up enough money for a plane ticket and a hotel stay. And for what? To get stressed out by a bunch of newbies who thought they owned my fandom?

Oh, I know — you’re supposed to be welcoming and gracious to the new fans. And for the most part, I always have been. And for the most part, they’ve been really cool.

But there’s always a few…

Laurels who have a cow because they discover that there are people actually enjoying things that Laurels believe should only be sources of shame and misery.

Or the guys (and it’s really mostly guys) who are acutely aware that fanning is not the most respectable of pursuits.

(Unless it’s sports of course. Sports is compleeeeeetely different. A person who paints themselves violet and wears an antenna on a headband is a pathetic weirdo, but one who paints themselves… uh… (insert colors of popular sports team here) and puts on a clown wig is a true fan of… the game. I mean, that sports fan may be aware of society at large not taking him seriously, but it’s in a tiny-frisson-of-rebellion sort of way, not a god-I-hope-my-boss-never-finds-out sort of way.)

Anyhow, these end up being the fans who try to set up some rigid hierarchy of fandom, with themselves — the serious scholars of the media in question — at the top. You know the type — they buy “replicas,” not “toys,” “figurines,” not “dolls.”

They look down their noses at “Questies” and call themselves “Questerians.”

I get it, but it’s not going to make a bit of difference. Clownwig McJockstrap will still be treated with amused indulgence while K’Zar, First Warrior of the Mank’Nar, will still be considered a loser who can’t find gainful employment or someone to touch his genitals — no matter how far from the truth that might be.

Finding someone to sneer at won’t change that, K’Zar.

This is not to say that the veteran fans are so much better. But even the ones who didn’t agree with me had been there during The Struggle, you know? We had scrounged up the resources to rent the hall and buy the beer. The rest were just showing up to the party. Then some of them went and had the gall to try and take it over.

I might have gotten just a little bitter.

Anyway, the point I was trying to make something like twelve paragraphs ago — I wasn’t entirely out of the game just because I didn’t attend any geekmoots. I mean, I was still writing.

I was still writing Tawny (and occasionally Laredo) adventure fics, but I became known as the author who puts background slash in everything. There were a few zines still willing to publish the Tawny fics, but Laredo stories were usually considered kids’ stories, and having Chen refer to Lazarus as his husband was enough to raise a G-rated fic to R-rated status, so I didn’t get any of those published until the late Nineties. (Actually, the first one was a parody — “Lt. Laredo Has Two Colleagues Who Are Married to Each Other and Are Both Guys and That's Okay.”)

I’m a goddamn stubborn little cuss.

 

As for the rest of my life at that time — I got a pretty good job at the local community theater working in their costume department. The community theater has been going since 1929, and they’ve been collecting costumes that whole time. It’s a lot of costumes. Most of the local high schools (and sometimes the local colleges) rented their costumes from them. It was my job to wrangle the costumes.

I also spent a couple of months picking apart my relationship with Jackson. I came to two resolutions.

One – Monogamy was not for me. I didn’t ever want to be forced to choose again, I didn’t want to hear how needy I am again, and I really didn’t want to be stuck putting all my emotional eggs in one basket again. I had always been polyamorous, now I had even more reasons to stick to non-exclusive arrangements.

And two – My intuition had warned me multiple times about Jackson, but I hadn’t listened. My mom once told me that when I was a baby I had an almost eerie ability to know what people wanted from me. I always knew who wanted to play games, who wanted to cuddle, who didn’t want to interact with me at all. Now maybe lots of kids can do that, but my takeaway was that the not-so-logical part of my brain knows stuff about people and I should listen to it.

After a while of doing that, I managed to come up with a pretty good screening process.

Crack a few jokes – ones that all your friends think are hilarious. Laughing at someone else’s jokes requires a certain amount in common and a certain amount of trust in their ability to take you on a journey with a surprise ending. A guy who isn’t interested in your funny stories just isn’t interested in the way your mind works, you know?

Watch how they treat the waitress/barista/ticket agent/whatever. I mean, this is old advice, but it’s good advice

And finally, let it drop that you prefer men but you’re sometimes into women too. This one might be rather specific to my own situation, but unicorn-hunters have absolutely no ability to play it cool once they think they’ve sighted their quarry, so to speak. Look, I get it. I’d love to be in a triad too, just probably not the one they’re thinking of.

Anyway, at two years out of college, I was pretty happy with the way I had arranged my life.

So you know it started falling apart right about then.

Reagan-era cuts to arts funding and a series of questionable seasons for the theater meant that I had to choose between doing my job part-time (with no benefits) or leaving altogether.

I took part-time. Not very sensible, I know, but I loved that job. It meant moving to a three-bedroom apartment because 400 bucks a month split three ways is less than 300 bucks a month split two ways. That’s when I also started working as an artists’ model at the Art Institute.

I have no modesty, and it paid ten dollars an hour.

Then the theater decided that my services weren’t needed in the summer, so I got a third job with the Department of Natural Resources overseeing a boat launch during my off-time from the theater.

Finally, I got in an argument with one of the directors. He’d put a hold on a costume, but he didn’t put it in the “hold” closet or anything logical like that. He just told the head of my department to hold it, and the department head didn’t tell me or leave a note or anything, and I rented the costume out. The director wasn’t happy about having to hunt down another costume that he felt was inferior and I didn’t handle getting yelled at by that director well. My flight or fight response tends to be set on “fight.” Even more so when I was in my twenties.

It was decided that if we weren’t renting costumes to the general public, mix-ups like that wouldn’t occur and (as a bonus) my presence would no longer be required.

I really loved that job.

I moved into a four-bedroom apartment.

In addition to the DNR in the summer and the modeling, I worked a series of awful jobs each winter — short order cook at a terrible downtown burger place where the owner regularly stiffed the workers an hour’s pay each week (Then he had the gall to ask us if we had paid every time he saw us with a fountain drink.), presser at a laundromat, home health care, and you guessed it, housekeeping at various hotels.

I often wondered if I’d made a mistake, staying with the theater. Maybe I would have been better off looking for another “real” job after the first cut in hours.

But what was done was done, I guess. I had chosen _la vie Boh_ _ème_. And now it was biting me in the ass.

 

“You’ve been picking up a lot of sessions,” said Darius from the other side of the curtain.

He was the only instructor who ever talked to me while I was getting dressed. I guess the others considered it impolite. There’s some weird etiquette that goes on when conversing with the only naked person in the room. But honestly, by this time, I would have been far more embarrassed for someone to see my tatty undies than my naked ass. I fastened the hook on my ancient gored skirt, zipped it, and twisted it around my waist so that the zipper was in the back where it belonged.

“I can’t just hide this magnificent Rubenesque body under a basket, you know. I need to share it with the world, or at least the greater Kalamazoo area,” I said.

Truthfully, I was trying to save up for a new computer. I wasn’t sure how long my old Amiga was going to last.

I slipped my small pile of rings back on. I had considered selling them, but silver was still ridiculously cheap in 1991. I’d have been lucky to get twenty bucks for the lot of them.

I put on a black, sleeveless mock-turtleneck, pulling it down over the small holes at the waist of my skirt. Acid-washed skirts were never meant to last as long as that one had — neither as fashion statements nor as physical objects.

“Rubenesque?” asked Darius. “Where the hell did you come up with that?”

“One,” I said, coming out from behind the curtain carrying my shoes and socks, “I’ll have you know I took Art Appreciation in college.” I plopped down on the little wicker sofa I’d just posed on for the last two hours and put on one black anklet. “And two — everyone here loves to tell me how delightfully ‘Renaissance’ I am because ‘zaftig’ is for theater nerds, not... studio nerds.”

Darius just chuckled and shook his head.

“Have you seen the new exhibit in the downstairs gallery?” he asked. “They finally gave some wall-space to a sister.”

“I didn’t even know they’d changed it yet.” I put my mis-matched earrings back in. In those days I mostly wore big, funky, cheap earrings, usually in “coordinating” pairs. I was hoping the effect was unique and artistic rather than got-dressed-in-the-dark. Or can’t-keep-track-of-her-earrings-and-can’t-afford-to-replace-them.

“You should check it out before you leave,” he said.

“Won’t it be here all month?” I really wanted to get home. The DNR job had just ended for the year and I didn’t start my winter gig (front desk at a ski resort in the U.P.) for another week. I just wanted to write.

“It’s so beautiful, you’ll want to look at it every day. It will inspire you to write a masterpiece.”

“You’re so fucking weird, Darius.” I slid my feet into my shoes — a pair of cheap oxfords on which I had replaced the shoelaces with pieces of black grosgrain ribbon. (This was not some sort of money-saving measure. I just had the ribbon sitting around and I thought it looked pretty.) I tied them into bows.

As I stood up, Darius handed me my hat — a black, crushed velvet thing with big mauve roses.

“Go see the exhibit, Mary Sue.”

“Fine,” I said putting on my glasses. “If it’ll make you happy.” I grabbed my book bag and headed for the door.

“I’m counting on it making _you_ happy!” he yelled as I was leaving.

I stopped about halfway down the hall to grab my purse out of my book bag and my lip balm out of my purse. I noticed that the gold chain stitching that made up the elephant on the book bag was coming loose. Nothing I couldn’t fix if I could find some matching thread. That was a big “if,” I thought with dismay. The handle was fraying as well. I’d be lucky if it didn’t drop my library books all over the sidewalk on the way home. It was looking more and more as if my computer savings were going to go to clothes and other necessities. Again. I hoped the gods of personal computing would smile upon me for a few more years.

I sighed. No crying at work, Mary Sue. Go wander the gallery for a bit, go home, eat a giant plate of pasta for lunch, and write. You’ll feel better.

I went downstairs.

I loved this gallery.

It reminds me of a black box theater — the walls are painted matte black and little spotlights highlight each artwork. It has the effect of making you feel as though you’re viewing the art alone, even when there are quite a few people around.

I recognized the first painting immediately, although this was the first time I’d seen it in person. It’s an oil of a sumptuous bedroom befitting a princess — lots of dark wood and gilding. On the left side is her satin-covered four-poster bed. On the right, the princess herself sits at her mirror, weaving her yards and yards of dreadlocks into a thick plait that winds down her body and across the floor in several meandering loops before winding back to her where she’s working on the last few feet of her hair. Her skin is deep umber, almost the color of the wood furniture, but with a golden undertone that makes her seem lit from within. She’s wearing a violet gown with a mustard-yellow surcoat that has been embroidered with what looks like fruit-covered vines. On closer inspection, one can see that the fruits are actually little radishes.

I didn’t have to read the plaque to know who the artist was.

“Shondra,” I said, grinning.

“Yes?” came a familiar voice.

I whirled around, and there she was, in the flesh as they say.

“Oh my god!” I squeaked.

She held out her arms, and I hugged her so tight.

She did that thing where she grabbed my shoulders holding me at arms’ length, and said, “Look at you! I’ve missed you!”

“Oh god,” I said. “I’ve missed you too!”

Darius was standing at the entrance to the gallery, grinning.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“That’s no way to treat my accomplice,” said Shondra.

“On the contrary, that’s exactly why he deserves it.”

“Ladies,” said Darius, “I beg of you not to fight over me.”

Shondra looked at me. “You’re right. He deserves it.”

“Fine!” said Darius, haughtily. “I can see when I’m just a third wheel!” He turned and walked, with great dignity, back down the hall.

“You always find the weirdos, Mary Sue,” said Shondra.

I cocked my eyebrow.

Shondra cocked her eyebrow. “I know what I said.”

“So what are you doing here?” I asked.

“It’s a program the Art Institute is doing with the library. They invite various illustrators to exhibit their works here, and to come and hold a talk in the planetarium, which I guess is on the second floor of the library.”

“That’s where they keep it, along with the mummy.”

“Naturally.”

“You look gorgeous, by the way,” I said. “I guess this isn’t a paint-splattered overalls occasion.”

She was wearing a flame-red coat dress and gold hoop earrings. Her hair was pinned up along the back and sides and tight curls sproinged artfully at the top.

“Nope. This is a taking-a-girlfriend-out-to-lunch occasion.”

“Sounds great,” I said, hoping that thirteen dollars and change would cover my half at a flame-red-coat-dress sort of establishment.

I tried not to think about what I would end up sacrificing later.

“Darius told me that Josephine’s has good food. Have you been there?”

I shook my head. “They just opened.” And I can’t afford the Coney Island, let alone a restaurant that refers to their food as “cuisine.”

She grinned. “So it’s an adventure for both of us. We’ll have to take your car though. I didn’t bother renting one since the hotel is so close by.”

“I don’t actually have a car,” I said. “I hate driving in general, and driving in downtown Kalamazoo is its own special torture. But Josephine’s is only about four blocks away.”

So that’s where we went. Thankfully, the lunch menu was pretty reasonable – you know – compared to the dinner menu. I ordered a nine-dollar chicken Caesar salad and tap water.

Shondra wanted to split a bottle of wine.

“I… didn’t bring that much money with me,” I said.

“Oh sweetie,” said Shondra. “This is my treat. I know you’re broke.”

Relief and embarrassment — interesting combination.

“Is it the 1987 skirt that gave me away?” I asked.

“Mary Sue, there’s no shame in being broke. Until some crazy lady decided that I drew cute talking pigs, I was washing half my wardrobe every night in the sink.”

“You were working toward something though, Shondra. I’m just drifting.”

“Well, you know what’ll help you figure it all out?” she asked.

“What?”

“Half a bottle of Chablis.”

“Get the Riesling,” I said, laughing. “Michigan has great German style wines. Most of them never make it out of the state.”

So she ordered a Riesling.

And it was _very_ good.

We talked about The Old Days and Cece and Fred and even Margot, a little. I caught her up on Mi-Na’s life. I told her (again) that I really loved the illustration she’d done for my Lt. Laredo fic.

“You know,” said Shondra, “Margot told me once that you were working on a romance with Chen and Lazarus. She said it was really good. Whatever happened to it?”

“I was still in college,” I said. “I was working on edits based on her feedback, but I got busy and then distracted with other projects. I tried to go back and finish editing a few years ago, but…”

“But…?

“I had very strong, mixed feelings about what happened with Margot — with what she did,” I said. “And I just couldn’t work on it without thinking about her. I should really get it out and try again. It might get me out of my rut. I’ve been writing the same stuff over and over.”

“What do you do besides _Galaxy Quest_?” she asked.

“I’ve been working on a mystery that takes place at one of the old mansions here.”

“An original fiction?”

“Yeah, I used to walk by that house every day, and there’s this big weird tree in the garden — a weeping beech. Anyway, I got noodling about it.”

“And?”

“And so far it’s kind of like Lazarus and Chen, really. An intellectual misfit and his affable friend solve a mystery. It’s them working in the lab, only with a prettier setting.”

“Why not? Intellectual misfits and affable friends solve three-quarters of literary mysteries,” she said.

“You have a point,” I said, laughing.

The waitress came by at that point to ask if we wanted dessert.

“N—”

“Yes!” said Shondra. “Please.”

The waitress brought us dessert menus.

“Have you ever had flourless chocolate cake with raspberry coulis?” asked Shondra.

“Not one I haven’t made myself.”

Shondra would’ve been looking at me over the frames of her glasses, if she wore glasses.

“My mom likes me to make it for her and Dad’s anniversary,” I said.

Shondra pursed her lips.

“I make it with a blood orange compote though. Their anniversary’s in January — when citrus is in season.”

“Is there anything on this fancy-pants menu that you haven’t cooked?” she asked.

I think about it. “Pan-seared Brussels sprouts. I hate Brussels sprouts.”

“Have you ever considered becoming a chef?”

I got asked this fairly often by people who have no idea what goes on in a professional kitchen, especially back when I was barely scraping by.

“Being a chef requires the same passion and talent and level of commitment it takes to be an artist. Otherwise, it’s nothing but the most soul-suckingly grueling work there is.”

“So that would be a ‘no?’”

“That would be a big ‘no.’ I wouldn’t have time to write.”

Shondra ordered us both slices of flourless chocolate cake.

“Listen,” she said after we’d sufficiently appreciated our first couple bites of dessert. “I want you to do me a favor.”

“Buttering me up with chocolate first?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Smart move.”

“I want you to polish up that Lazarus/Chen story and send it to Cece,” she said.

“You mean for _Galactic Love_?” I asked. Cece was the chief editor of the zine, although to get published there I’d still need the approval of the other editors. “Why?”

“Quest Con is going to do some official panels next year. People who do them will get an event pass, a free room, and their airfare covered. One of the panels is on writing romance fanfics, but to qualify you’d have to publish something this year.”

“They aren’t going to want someone who writes slash, even if I’ve done straight romance in the past.”

“On the contrary, there have been requests for it,” said Shondra. “But the organizers want someone who has done… tasteful romances.”

“No banging, you mean?”

“Nothing below the belt.”

“Why is this a favor to you?” I asked, stuffing another mouthful of cake in my cake-hole.

“Because I miss you,” she said. “And I’m tired of listening to Cece piss and moan about how you haven’t come back. And because I don’t think you’d just let me and Cece pay for the pleasure of your company.”

I mean, that last thing makes me seem a bit bitchy, doesn’t it?

On the other hand, she’s not wrong.

“I’m sure I’m _persona non grata_ with the committee after all the drama with the Taggart fic. Even if my story got into _Galactic Love_ , it wouldn’t guarantee that they’d want me on that panel.”

“Most of the people who were on the committee then are long gone,” she said.

I sat back in my chair and bit my lip.

“Okay,” she said. “I see I’m going to have to haul out the big guns.” She reached over to the empty chair at our table and grabbed her purse. She took out an envelope and handed it to me.

Inside was a photo.

It’s Cece and Shondra on a roof with the L.A. skyline behind them. Fred must have used a tripod and a timer, because he’s in the photo too, with his arm around Cece.

On the back, in Sharpie, it said, “Come home soon Mary Sue. —Fred.”

Well, fuck.

“I’ll send the story to Cece by next weekend,” I said.

“That’s the spirit,” said Shondra, grinning.

 

And because I know you’re just dying to read it —

 

 

***

 

All the Lonely Things My Hands Have Done

by Thalia Z.

 

The walls, where Dr. Lazarus could see them, were the same shade of light grey as his own quarters, but other than that, no room on the _Protector_ could possibly be more different from the empty box he had called home for the last four years than this. However, his own quarters — his smooth, grey bastion against chaos with its walls unbroken by portholes or paintings or anything at all except the fine lines indicating the hidden doors to the head, the closet, the alcove where he kept the armonimin, and the few grey buttons that operated those doors — all this had become abhorrent to him now that he was pregnant.

Lazarus placed a hand on his abdomen. It had been a painful three days while the volvac sac had migrated from the chamber under his diaphragm to his pouch, but the ship’s physician had assured him that his mother’s embryo was now developing normally.

Which meant that his body was producing chemicals — _demanding_ chemicals — and those chemicals wanted nothing to do with the spikes he slept on or the monk’s cell he slept in.

Monks don’t have babies.

He had wanted to cry just looking at it.

Tech Sgt. Chen’s quarters, however, filled him with a sense of safety and peace, and they smelled curiously pleasant.

He’d gone to Chen to explain that he needed, at the very least, a new bed before tonight’s sleep cycle, but with the _Protector_ currently hosting a large group of scientists — assorted botanists, bio-medical researchers, and horticulturists for an interplanetary flora survey — beds were scarce. The main barracks was filled to capacity and most of the officers were sharing their quarters with someone as well.

“Even an old sickbay bed would suffice,” he told Sgt. Chen once he’d located him in the mess hall. He would never be able to center himself sufficiently to manage the spikes in his current emotional state.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. I don’t think we even have that at the moment,” said Chen. “You can bunk with me though, if you like. The guy that was assigned to my quarters decided to stay with Tawny and her roommate instead. I know you’d probably like something more private, but the sleeping area in my quarters is sort of cut off from the main living area, and you’re welcome to it.”

“I couldn’t inconvenience you in that manner.”

“It’s no problem. I fall asleep on the sofa most nights anyway. It’s a very comfy sofa.”

“You’re positive?”

“Absolutely.” Chen grinned. “Come on. I’ll help you move your things. Just, uhh — no blood-ticks, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Sergeant. I find them as disgusting as you do right now.”

Chen’s quarters were mainly shelves of organized clutter — a hodgepodge of disassembled gadgets and items obviously chosen for their utility rather than their aesthetic qualities, all arranged within a system that no doubt made perfect sense to Chen. It was a long, somewhat narrow space located near Engineering on the main body of the ship. There were three rectangular portholes on the gently curving outer wall. The head was located on the short wall to the right of the entrance, which was at one end of the room. There was a non-standard black sofa with a high back and a deep seat located under the portholes. It was obvious that Chen slept there often. A bed pillow leaned against one arm of the couch and another, longer bed pillow lay against the back. An ombré purple blanket woven from what appeared to be Andronican puff flax was folded neatly next to the opposite arm. Across from the sofa and against the inner wall was a small table with two chairs evidently meant for dining but clearly used as a work table, and a large black armchair. On the other end of the room from the door were three two-and-a-half-meter tall bookcases that created a wall of sorts that closed off the sleeping area.

It was the complete and utter opposite of his own quarters.

And it smelled _wonderful_.

It was like the air after a rainstorm? Or Semeckian sparkling mead? Or sun-warmed bio-linen? Or zolut-fruit ice cream?

“Are you alright, Doctor?” asked Chen.

“Do you scent the air of your quarters?” asked Lazarus, looking around for some sort of air-freshening device or incense burner. “It smells like…”

“Um, like what?” asked Chen, furrowing his eyebrows.

Like childhood. Like memories. Like _safety_.

Lazarus shook his head. “I can’t identify it. It smells… unusually good here.”

Chen laughed. “Maybe it’s your nesting instinct kicking in.”

It _was_ his nesting instinct, of course. He was rather surprised, however, that Chen had deduced it.

“You know about the nesting instinct?”

Chen shrugged. “I found some stuff on Mak’Tar pregnancy in a textbook someone put in the computer’s database. I figured it was best to be prepared.”

“In the four days since I announced that I would be gestating one of the embryos that was left within me, you’ve sought out and read literature on the procreative habits of my people?”

“Well, like I said, I like to be prepared. And I promised I’d help. So, yeah… I read the manual.” He laughed a little in self-consciousness. “I guess it’s an engineer thing. Anyway, the bed is right around the other side of these bookcases.”

Lazarus didn’t doubt that Chen really didn’t use the sleeping area much.

This area contained nothing but an immaculately-made bed and a small dresser that doubled as a nightstand. There was a wall-mounted reading lamp which Chen switched on. He then made quick work of removing the few items contained in the dresser so that Lazarus could have it for his own use.

Looking at it from the standpoint of a warrior, it was a disaster — an indefensible trap with terrible visibility located too far from the exit.

To a nesting Mak’Tar, however, this was perfect. From the bed with it’s two fluffy pillows, to the soft light of the reading lamp, to the bookcases shielding this secluded little corner — everything here felt right. For the second time that day, Lazarus felt as if he might cry. He glanced at Chen to see if he had noticed, but Chen was busy juggling the pile of pajamas and books he’d taken from the dresser.

“I’ll uh… I’ll just go find a place for these,” said Chen, still not looking at Lazarus. “You go ahead and get settled in.”

 

In hindsight, Chen might have been more circumspect if he hadn’t been so surprised. Yeah, he’d read the tiny bit of information about Mak’Tar pregnancy that was available on the _Protector_ , but he’d really expected that Dr. Lazarus would ask Cmdr. Taggart for help if something came up. Chen and Lazarus weren’t what you’d call close. Chen had the deepest respect for Lazarus as an officer and a scientist, and he had no doubt that Lazarus felt something similar about him, but Lazarus wasn’t really close to anyone except Taggart, and Chen wasn’t particularly close to anybody at all.

But Lazarus had come to him. He had come to him first. And Chen had forgotten to remind himself about how he got when someone needed him.

“Settle in,” he’d said, and Lazarus settled in quite enthusiastically, as a matter of fact. Pillows appeared on the bed — pillows covered in soft, bright fabrics. After Chen spent a night sweating on the sofa because Lazarus had turned the environmental controls up as far as they would go, a fog-grey duvet showed up — a duvet so aggressively puffy that Chen thought it was just another, more giant pillow at first. Curtains came next, and Chen was sure that Lazarus would hang them across the opening between the bulkhead and the side of the bookcase, but instead he draped them around the bed, leaving them tied back on the side closest to the entrance. They were a few shades lighter than the duvet and embroidered all over with a silver and blue scrolling pattern. Chen could see them whenever he looked up from his usual spot at the far end of the sofa, and when he laid his head down on the closer end of the sofa to sleep, he could see right into the little area. Often, his last thought at night was that Dr. Lazarus appeared to be sleeping in a cloud — a cloud with bits of rainbow scattered over it.

In no time at all, they arranged a comfortable routine. Lazarus and Chen were both early risers, and they would chat amiably about work and their plans for the day as they dressed on either side of the bookcases, then walk to the mess hall together for breakfast. Dr. Lazarus preferred his shower after his shift and Chen preferred the mornings. Sometimes Dr. Lazarus sat in the armchair in the evening, reading whatever science officers read at night on his TABLIT while Chen lounged on the couch reading a novel or sat at the table fiddling with one of his projects. Sometimes Lazarus made a beeline for the bed and cocooned himself in his duvet. On these occasions, Chen pretended, as he had on the first day, that he didn’t notice the tears.

Which is all to say that if Chen hadn’t been so focused on Lazarus and his obvious vulnerability and confusion, he might have noticed that he was doing the exact opposite of what a rather lonely person who wishes to maintain a professional distance should probably do. Having Lazarus there delighted Chen. He hadn’t had a roommate since Mateo in college, unless you counted the years he’d spent in the barracks, and that was different. He had forgotten that when you like someone, it’s nice to come home to them.

He may actually have basked, just a little, in the warmth of Dr. Lazarus’s company.

They had been sharing quarters for a little over three weeks when Lazarus woke Chen from a sound sleep with a loud cry of pain. Chen was on his feet and tripping over his own body pillow before he had time to think. He wasn’t even sure what had woken him until he heard Lazarus gasp and saw the light in the sleeping area come on. Chen rushed to the bed.

“Are you alright? What is it?”

Lazarus was sitting up, clutching his lower leg.

“Warvan’s TITS! That hurts!”

“Ah. Leg cramp,” said Chen, relieved that it wasn't something worse. “Here, let me.”

He slid his hands up under the leg of Lazarus’s pajamas, and kneaded the cramped muscle. He was concentrating so hard on relaxing the spasm that it didn’t even occur to him how intimate his actions were until he looked up and saw the shocked expression on Dr. Lazarus’s face. He could feel his own face getting warm.

“I uh… I…”

“Thank you,” said Lazarus. “That’s quite effective.”

“It’s no problem,” said Chen, deciding that he should keep up the massage.

“My apologies for waking you. I wasn’t expecting this. It was the surprise as much as the pain.”

“It’s fine. It happens. My sister used to get these all the time when she was pregnant.”

“You acquired this technique for her?” Lazarus nodded toward Chen’s hands.

“Yeah. She’s quite a bit older than me, and she came to stay with us when she was pregnant. Her husband was stationed on the _Seeker_ at the time. They both were until her pregnancy turned risky. Now they’re at Delta Station and their son is almost sixteen.”

“A happy outcome,” said Lazarus.

Chen looked up at the tone of Lazarus’s voice.

“You’ll have one too,” Chen said.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Sure I can.” Chen grinned.

“No you can’t.” But Lazarus was smiling too.

Chen felt the muscle relax under his hands. “Better now?” he asked.

“Yes. Much. Thank you again,” said Lazarus.

“Good,” said Chen, standing up and tugging the duvet back over Lazarus’s lap. “Get some sleep.”

“Good night,” said Lazarus, still sitting up in the bed.

“Good night.” Chen went back to the sofa, retrieved his body pillow from the floor, and curled himself around it. He caught a glimpse of Lazarus just before the reading lamp went dark.

He tried not to think about the texture of Lazarus’s skin against his hands.

 

A week later, the _Protector_ docked at Theta Station and the extra personnel from the flora survey disembarked. As much as he might prefer the opposite — and he very much preferred the opposite — Dr. Lazarus could finally stop intruding on Sgt. Chen’s hospitality. He told Chen as much when Chen came back to his room to get a tool he’d left there.

“The Steward informs me that a small quarters near mine is available. It will do for the rest of my pregnancy,” he said. “I shouldn’t require longer than an hour to pack, and you’ll have your privacy once more.” Lazarus ignored the nausea that threatened when he contemplated leaving. This had only been a temporary arrangement. It would be wrong to ask Chen to extend his invitation for an entire seven months. Wrong. And very inappropriate.

“You’re not staying?” asked Chen. “Your nest is here. It… smells good.”

“Yes. It does smell good,” said Lazarus. “But I really should relocate. There’s no reason for me to trespass upon your kindness and generosity any longer than I already have.”

“I see,” said Chen, picking up the tool he’d come for from the table. “Do you need any help? Packing or something?”

“No.” Lazarus didn’t want Chen there if he started weeping. Again. May Grabthar damn these hormones to Koris. “I assure you that I am equal to the task.”

“Okay,” said Chen, and he turned to leave. He got about halfway to the door and turned back. “Look, don’t go. Stay. You shouldn’t be alone. If you were at the colony on New Tev’Meck, you wouldn’t be alone, would you? The uh… the manual said that a Mak’Tar’s friends and family gather around him to help him through the pregnancy. Isn’t that what I am? A friend, I mean?”

“Sergeant. Yes, you are. I’m fortunate to have such a friend.”

“Then stay. Unless you’re just trying to spare my feelings by saying that you don’t want to bother me, because you’re not bothering me. I… I want to help.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“If you want to go, then you should go, and no hard feelings, but if you don’t, then you shouldn’t go on my account, because I’d like you to stay.”

“Thank you,” said Lazarus. “Thank you. I will stay.”

Chen nodded and smiled. “Good, that’s… good. Now that that’s settled, I uh…” He waved the tool a little and left.

Lazarus retreated to his nest to cry.

May the curse of Ipthar forever be on these hormones.

 

Over the next week Dr. Lazarus added more items to the nest. Chen watched happily as a large framed print of a Tev’Meck landscape showed up, along with an odd collection of reflective objects that turned out to be a mobile. Chen insisted on hanging the thing himself.

“I assure you that I am perfectly capable of that, _Sergeant_.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Chen. “How was your blood-pressure at your last examination, _Doctor_?”

Lazarus sat on the bed and very nearly sulked while Chen hung the mobile.

It turned out to be a very sensitive apparatus. The vibration of the ship’s engine was enough to keep it in constant lazy motion. Chen could see the silvery reflections from it gliding across the ceiling at night. It was hypnotic, almost. The landscape was hung on the back of the bookcases.

Chen came home one night to a one- by two-meter plasti-wood shelving… thing in the middle of the living area.

“Um?” he asked Lazarus.

“I’m making a study of Arren violets,” said Lazarus. “They require special conditions and careful monitoring. I thought it best to have them here where I can care for them more conveniently.”

“Okay…” said Chen. “This isn’t exactly the most convenient spot for something this big, though.”

“My plan was to have it in the nest. I’ve already measured the space at the foot of the bed. However, the doctor has forbidden me from lifting anything over 20 kilos.”

And, clearly, Lazarus didn’t want random crewmen in his nest, so he’d had them drop it here.

“Right,” said Chen. He dug around in one of the lower cabinets until he found an older-model anti-grav cargo lifter that he had salvaged. He stuck it to the side of the hydroponic unit and activated it.

“Are there any tools that you don’t possess?” asked Lazarus.

“Tools are what separates Humans from our primate ancestors.” It was Chen’s standard response to anyone who questioned his collection.

Chen spent the next hour helping Lazarus set up the little garden — and refraining from mentioning that Lazarus spent far more time in his lab than his nest, making the lab the far more sensible location for the violets and their large, heavy home.

Lazarus managed to find a source for custom maternity uniforms. Or were they paternity uniforms? Clothes for pregnant people anyway. He also began to snack a lot — nothing alive though, thank god.

The biggest change, though, was that Cmdr. Taggart showed up way more often than he used to. It made sense, Chen supposed — Lazarus was Taggart’s second-in-command and chief advisor and best friend. And they did talk about strategy and ship’s business. Mostly though, they played endless games of 3D Go.

Chen got his own share of visitors — Madison asking his opinion on a new module she wanted to add to the computer’s programming (or more likely, just looking to talk excitedly with someone who knew what she was going on about) or Laredo with a technical question about the propulsion systems (probably because he was already planning his next “awesome” maneuver). Some evenings found all five of them crammed into Chen’s quarters until someone noticed how tired Lazarus looked and they started making their good-byes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had so many people hanging out here,” said Chen from his side of the bookcases as he was undressing after one such evening. Lazarus had just taken a shower and Chen could hear the rustle of him putting on his pajamas.

“I’ve never had anyone ‘hang out,’ as you put it, in my quarters,” replied Lazarus.

“You know you don’t have any chairs there, right?” said Chen. “It kind of sends the message that you don’t _want_ people hanging out.”

“Because I didn’t.”

“But you do now?”

“As you pointed out, Mak’Tar feel a desire to have their… companions close during pregnancy.”

“So you’ll want to go back to keeping your distance once you’ve had the baby?” Chen felt something cold and heavy settle in his stomach.

“I don’t know.” There was silence from Lazarus’s side. Chen was about to ask why he didn’t know when Lazarus said, “Pregnancy can change a man. Permanently. As a consequence, I have delayed undergoing it longer than I ought to have.”

 

Lazarus was waiting in the Pod Bay when the surface pod carrying Sha’ree of New Tev’Meck arrived. While he was fond of Sha’ree, he had not anticipated this visit with much pleasure. She would no doubt arrive with many well-reasoned arguments for his removal to New Tev’Meck. He had found it necessary to arm himself with counter-arguments. Lazarus hated justifying his actions — especially to someone he genuinely liked.

As soon as the door of the pod opened, he was there to give her a hand as she stepped out.

“Sha’ree Sigunlan’Mandastorl, honored mother of the child I bear, welcome to the NSEA _Protector_.”

“Lazarus, honored bearer of my child, I gratefully accept your welcome.”

They both bowed slightly in each others’ direction.

“Well,” said Sha’ree, “now that we’ve got that out of the way, may I say that you’re looking well and that I’ve missed you?”

“I’ve missed you as well,” replied Lazarus. He offered her his arm and she took it. They started down the corridor.

“You wouldn’t have to miss me so much if you came to New Tev’Meck occasionally,” she said.

“I shall endeavor to do so more often,” said Lazarus.

“I’m serious, Lazarus. New Tev’Meck needs you.”

“New Tev’Meck has thrived in my absence, and will continue to do so.” She raised her eyebrow rather pointedly. “Sha’ree, my life is here. What I do benefits our people as well.”

Sha’ree sighed. “Very well, I didn’t come here to argue with one of the men who bears my children.”

“Tavid also nests?” asked Lazarus.

“Four octs now.” She nodded toward Lazarus’s thickened abdomen. “Xe will have a sibling.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” he replied. “Very pleased, indeed.”

“It’s why I can’t stay, unfortunately, but I wanted to be sure that you’re being cared for.”

“I assure you that I am,” replied Lazarus. “Here we are.”

He punched a code into the keypad beside the door, then indicated that she should place her palm on the lighted panel. The door slid open, and Lazarus waved her inside.

“The panel is keyed for your palm-print now. I hope these quarters are acceptable,” he said. “They’re mine, so they’re optimized for Mak’Tar needs. As you know, I have followed the path of Grabthar for many years now, but Sgt. Chen disabled the spikes and had the Steward put in more conventional furniture.” Chen had seemed rather surprised to find out that most Mak’Tar lived in dwellings that more resembled Lazarus’s nest than the quarters he had occupied for many years.

“Where do you nest?” she asked.

“My nest is in another area. I’ll take you there after dinner.” He pressed a button on the right-hand wall, showing her where the head was located. She nodded in understanding.

“What does this one do?” she asked, pointing to the button on the left-hand wall.

“Press it and see,” he replied.

She did. “An armonomin!” she said, grinning. “You still play then?”

“Yes, although not as much as I once did. I still come here every few days and practice.”

“Well, you mustn’t stop on my account. Promise you’ll come play. I would love to hear it.”

“I will.” He smiled at her. “Would you like to rest before dinner, or would you prefer a tour of the ship?”

“Tour, please,” she said, “if you’re not too tired.”

 

Sha’ree cocked her head and looked at the toilet as if it were a particularly difficult logic puzzle.

“There’s a… trick to it,” said Lazarus quietly. “It’s not difficult once you’ve mastered it.”

Sha’ree blushed. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, just as quietly.

Chen stood outside the head, staring through a porthole as if entranced by the vista of outer space and totally oblivious to the conversation taking place not three meters away.

Sha’ree and Lazarus stepped out of the head and continued their slow circuit of Chen’s quarters. Sha’ree seemed to be taking in every detail, and Chen was conscious of just how many unfinished projects he had sitting around in some state of “progress.” She picked up an Alset violet-energy generator that Chen was working on.

“You like to tinker,” she observed, setting the object carefully back in its place.

“I suppose I do.” If there was anything more awkward than making conversation with the woman who was going to adopt your pregnant roommate’s baby, Chen had no idea what it might be. He got the distinct impression that Sha’ree wanted to snatch Lazarus and run with him back to New Tev’Meck.

Sha’ree touched the 3-D Go board on the table.

“Do you play, Sergeant?” she asked.

“Mmm, not really. I definitely wouldn’t be much of a challenge to Dr. Lazarus.” Sha’Ree frowned slightly. Maybe she thought Lazarus needed more entertainment? “Cmdr. Taggart’s the expert. They play here a few nights a week,” said Chen.

Sha’ree turned her attention to the bookcases.

“Are these sacred?” asked Sha’ree, pointing at the small collection of old books that Chen had found over the years.

“Um, no ma’am. They’re just novels… stories.”

“I see,” she said.

“There’s one in Makian,” said Chen, relieved to have something to talk about that wasn’t related to his questionable ability to host a nesting Mak’Tar. He pulled a slim volume off a lower shelf where it had been sitting behind an antique device for detecting radiation. “I found it in a market on Endymion. I thought Dr. Lazarus might want it, but he said that the text hadn’t been lost and that material objects are a distraction, or whatever… If you want it…” He handed it to her.

She held the little book reverently. “It’s true that we didn’t lose this text in the Devastation, but copies from before that time are rare. Are you sure?” She looked at Lazarus. “This is appropriate then?”

“Very much so,” said Lazarus, and Chen was sure that he’d managed to do something Very Serious, but apparently it was okay. Sha’ree looked at Chen again, still a bit hesitant.

“I’m happy you like it,” he assured her. He was alarmed to see that she had tears in her eyes, but even more alarmed when she hugged him. He patted her gently on the shoulder, hoping that he wasn’t touching anything too sexy. He’d once touched a Kenise nobleman on the elbow and had to spend the night in the brig to avoid an interplanetary incident.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Sha’ree pulled back and gave Chen an only slightly watery smile before she continued her inspection. She noticed the folded blanket at one end of the couch. “You sleep here, Sgt. Chen?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s a very comfy couch,” he added. She nodded in approval. Okay, that part was good.

Sha’ree stopped at the threshold of the sleeping area.

“May I enter the nest?” she asked Lazarus.

“You may,” he answered.

While Sha’ree and Lazarus checked out his nest, Chen took a seat on the couch and contemplated how many times he had casually violated that particular boundary and what it might mean that Lazarus had just let him.

 

Sha’ree stayed three days on the _Protector_ , and every minute she was there, Chen expected her to gently explain why it would be for the best for Lazarus to come back to New Tev’Meck with her, and could Chen have a talk with him? So when she approached him in the mess hall a few hours before she was scheduled to leave and asked to speak to him privately, he supposed this was it, and he still had no idea what he was going to say to her. They went to Sha’ree’s quarters.

“You know I came here to take him back to New Tev’Meck with me,” said Sha’ree, as soon as the door closed behind them.

“I… um figured as much,” said Chen, his stomach lurching uncomfortably.

“I thought it would be better for him and for me. I could take care of him and my husband, Tavid, while they nest, and Lazarus would be among people who understand his needs at this time, but I see that he is among people who understand.”

Chen shook his head. “I’m operating on a high school social studies book and intuition.” Why was he admitting this?

Sha’ree laughed a little. “You’re doing just fine. Lazarus has always been… a little on the fringe. He’s brilliant and talented and very generous when given the opportunity, but he’s always held himself away from others. As much as he can be, I think he’s comfortable here, maybe even happy.”

“I don’t think I can take much credit for that. The others… We’ve all been taking care of him.”

“But you are his _ke_ _’mar_.”

“His what now?”

“When a man has no mate to care for him when he’s pregnant, he chooses a _ke_ _’mar_ — a friend to take the place of his mate in that capacity. It’s a great honor to be chosen to help bring a new life to our people, especially now when we are so few.”

“I… he’s never mentioned this. I’m not sure that’s how he sees me.”

“Oh, it most certainly is. The book you gave me? It’s a book of poems for children. It’s exactly the sort of thing that a _ke_ _’mar_ would give to the mother of the child in his protection. When Lazarus said that it was appropriate, he meant for me to understand what you are to him. Why he doesn’t want _you_ to understand is anyone’s guess.

“Anyway, I’m done meddling. I just wanted to be sure you knew that I will read from that book to my children, and I'll tell them of the kind person who gifted it to me so that they'll know the name of the man who cared for one of them before xe was even born.”

Chen blushed. “Sha’ree…”

“And I have a little present for you.” She handed him a data crystal. “This should be a bit more thorough than a textbook for half-grown children.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you_. Just be sure you take good care of my friend and my baby, Sgt. Chen. I’m relying on you.”

Both Lazarus and Chen saw Sha’ree off.

“Thank Ipthar that’s over,” said Lazarus as the surface pod left the bay.

“I thought she was nice,” said Chen. “Even though I felt like I was on a job interview.”

“Both of those assessments are entirely accurate,” said Lazarus as they turned and headed back to their quarters.

“Well, I think I passed.”

Lazarus nodded. “Thanks to you, I think she left feeling reassured as to the safety and well-being of the baby, despite the eccentricity of the situation and the person who bears xem.”

“Are you really that different from the other Mak’Tar?”

“I have been informed that I am.”

“She wanted you to go back to New Tev’Meck.”

“I think she and the other Mak’Tar expected that I would go home to nest. I expected the same, truthfully. During the false alarm last year, I made plans to do just that, but when I made the conscious choice to do this, I found that I didn’t want to go home.”

“Didn’t you?” They had arrived at their door, but Chen, rather than put his palm on the panel, turned to look at Lazarus, wondering if Lazarus could see the one and only thing that had been obvious to Chen from the start.

“I suppose I did,” said Lazarus, and Chen opened the door.

 

“It’s too dangerous,” said Chen.

“Chen, I know you don’t like this thing, but we don’t have a choice,” said Taggart. “The surface pods can’t get through the atmospheric barrier, but the digital conveyor can. If we don’t get those seismic control rods set, the entire Terrakian colony will be destroyed.”

“I get that, Commander,” replied Chen. “It’s too dangerous for Dr. Lazarus.”

“It’s no more dangerous for me than for anyone else, Sergeant,” said Lazarus.

“Kos estimated that the danger to a previable fetus may be three times as much as to an adult. And the risk to you if anything goes wrong with your pregnancy at this stage is too high,” replied Chen.

“I can do my job.”

“I have no doubt that you can do your job, so long as you don’t have to use the digital conveyor to do it.” Chen looked from Lazarus to Taggart. “I’m sorry, sirs. But I can’t. I won’t.”

“No, you’re right,” said Taggart. “Doc, we don’t even send Laredo through that thing.”

“Peter, I am not a child,” said Lazarus. Taggart looked pointedly at Lazarus’s thickening middle.

“Sorry. You’re staying here.” Taggart flipped open his vox. “Lt. Madison to the digital conveyor room, ASAP.” He flipped it shut again and looked at Lazarus. “You have the conn, Doc.”

Lazarus nodded. “Understood.” He left for the command deck.

The mission went smoothly. The control rods were set with plenty of time remaining, and Lt. Madison seemed to rather enjoy getting off the ship for a change.

There was nothing to be _upset_ about.

Who was sent to, or retrieved from the surface via the digital conveyor was Chen’s call, unless Taggart issued a direct order otherwise.

Chen was not wrong that damage to a Mak’Tar fetus early in the second trimester could be especially dangerous to the person who bore it.

It made Lazarus nauseous to think of harm coming to the fetus regardless of the danger to himself.

Chen was not wrong, Lazarus reasoned.

But Chen wasn’t right either, he fumed.

And Lazarus was decidedly _upset_ by the time he returned to their quarters that night.

He walked past Chen without a word. Chen simply looked up from his TABLIT and watched him pass — once to retrieve his robe, once on his way to the head, once more on his way back. It was Lazarus who finally broke the silence.

“Who gave you the right to decide what is or isn’t too dangerous for me?” He was standing in front of Chen in his pajamas and robe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“The National Space Exploration Administration and you,” said Chen, standing up.

“Me? At what point did I do any such thing?”

“At the point when you chose me to be your _ke_ _’mar_.”

“At the point when I chose you to be my _ke_ _’mar_? Where did you even learn that term?” Lazarus frowned, then sighed. “Sha’ree.”

“That is what you told her, isn’t it?”

“I led her to believe it. I wanted to ease her mind.”

“Maybe you haven’t said the word, Lazarus, but that’s how you’re treating me. You let me come and go from your nest as I please. Hell, you let me help you create it — in my quarters, I might add. You let me take care of you when you’re in pain.”

“A few leg massages do not make you my _ke_ _’mar_.”

“Don’t they?”

“I never asked you.”

“Maybe not formally, but most people looking for a bed aboard an NSEA vessel go to the Steward, not the Chief Engineer.”

Oh, sweet Ipthar. He’d done that, hadn’t he?

Chen rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t know why you came to me. I don’t know why you just let me fall into this role in your life, but I think you do want me here, and if you had asked me, I would’ve said ‘yes.’ If I’m wrong, you should tell me.”

“You’re…” Lazarus hesitated. It was on the tip of his tongue to say “wrong,” but he couldn’t. “You overstepped today.”

“I didn’t.” Chen started to pace. “Honestly? If I refused to put another person through that thing, I wouldn’t be overstepping, though I doubt the Administration would see it that way. It sucks, Lazarus. You could fly a surface pod through the digital conveyor’s margin of error. You know how I tell people there’s an art to using it? It should not be an art. It dices people up. It should be a science. It should be foolproof. At some point, somebody is going to die.” Chen came to a stop in front of Lazarus. “I’m going to kill somebody with that thing someday.”

Lazarus searched Chen’s face for a moment. It finally dawned on him why Chen was being so uncharacteristically stubborn. “You’re afraid,” he said.

“No shit! What’s not to be afraid of?”

“I knew you didn’t like it, but you’ve always seemed unperturbed when necessity demanded its use.”

“I’ve got news for you. Sometimes I’m not as _unperturbed_ as I seem.” Chen sat back down on the couch. He leaned against the back with his hands over his face for a second before letting them drop to his sides.

“No, of course not,” said Lazarus, sitting beside him. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have insisted.”

Chen turned his head to look at Lazarus. “Why did you? Insist?” It was a valid line of inquiry, Lazarus thought, and now that he was no longer directing his anger at Chen, the answer was obvious.

“Because I hate being treated like some fragile thing. I hate being told what’s best for me. I hate being a walking incubator. I hate what’s been done to me.” Lazarus pulled his robe tighter around himself and stared across the room, letting little flashes of memory play before him — not too much, not all of them. All of them was far too much.

“You’re aware of our history. The Meechans destroyed six billion souls for a handful of rare rocks. The Mak’Tar loaded every available ship with their children, and every available male child with their embryos. Only the most dire necessity would have prompted them to do such a thing — stuff our bodies with our own potential siblings. My father still carried a brood of five. I was only large enough to hold three of them.

“They sent out 108 ships in a desperate gamble inspired by the survival strategies of our distant ancestors. Disperse as many young as possible in the hopes that some survive. _Four_ ships survived — barely a thousand Mak’Tar, most of us children. Even with the addition of the 200 or so adults who had been off-world at the time of the Devastation, we are an endangered species.

“I know I need to do this. The alternative is unthinkable. If we are to survive, every life is needed, and what’s more, these are my siblings. I want them to be born. I just… wish I’d had a choice.”

“And I took another choice away from you today,” said Chen.

Lazarus didn’t deny it. “You did the right thing.”

“You’re doing the right thing. Is that any consolation?”

Lazarus huffed dryly. “It’s _some_ consolation.” He and Chen sat looking at each other for a long moment. Lazarus felt his perception of Chen shift. He had seen Chen’s limit. He had seen the way in which Chen defended that boundary, and curiously, the experience had enhanced the trust that Lazarus had instinctively placed in him.

“Vincent Chen, you have proven to be an excellent _ke_ _’mar_. Would you do me the favor of continuing in that capacity?”

Chen smiled. “Lazarus Kir’ruslan’Mekarastorl, it would be my honor.”

 

The day of their argument was the first time that Lazarus had used Chen’s given name, but it wasn’t the last. He was still “Chen” for everyday business, and “Sergeant” for when he was getting a little too close to Lazarus’s nerves, but he was “Vincent” now in conversation. There was more conversation now too.

Lazarus talked about his violets, or the latest breakthrough in the Sciences Division, or his own work in the biology labs. Sometimes he talked about his life on New Tev’Meck or his early days with the NSEA.

Chen would have been content to listen to that low, serene voice go on and on, but over and over, Lazarus would draw him out — get him talking about the mechanics of the ship or his own history. It was unexpected. If there were two people on the _Protector_ less likely to make small talk… but it didn’t seem small. It seemed significant, as a matter of fact. The distance at which Lazarus kept nearly everyone else had suddenly shrunk in Chen’s case.

They had argued. They had shown each other something painful. And it had been okay.

And now Lazarus called him “Vincent.”

And it was sending Chen slightly around the bend.

Chen had been aware since some time around the third leg massage that he desired Lazarus. It hadn’t been a big deal. It was just one of those things. Desire, for Chen, was never a big deal. It was just something that happened from time to time when he really liked and admired someone — the thought of physical intimacy with that person became attractive. Sometimes he pursued it. Most times he didn’t. This didn’t seem like a good time to pursue it, so he set it aside — stuffed it into a jar labeled “Things That Are Not Happening Now or Probably Ever,” screwed the lid on tight, and set it on a high shelf. And it was fine.

But then they argued and Lazarus started using his given name. And his name in Lazarus’s mouth vibrated at exactly the right frequency to produce cracks in that jar — letting the desire leak out, letting it get all over their quarters.

“Vincent, would you hand me that filter?”

“By the way Vincent, will you be on the mission to Throm?”

“Thank you, Vincent.”

Chen found himself watching the way Lazarus’s mouth moved when he said Chen’s name — the way his teeth rested briefly on his lower lip for the V and Chen wanted to press his own teeth there. He wanted to touch his own tongue to the spot on Lazarus’s palate where Lazarus placed his tongue for the N. Before now, Chen would have sworn he was not a particularly fanciful person, but then he would also have sworn that he wasn’t a person who was particularly susceptible to desire too.

But here he was. Susceptible as hell.

“Vincent!”

They had just decided to call it a night, and Lazarus was on his way to the head when he stopped suddenly and called Chen’s name.

“What is it?” Chen stood up.

“I felt xem move.” He unzipped his jacket and put a hand on his abdomen. “There it is again.” He held his other hand toward Chen. “Come here,” he said

Go there. Go there and put his hand on Lazarus’s warm stomach.

Oh sure. Why not?

Chen put his hand out. Lazarus took it by the wrist and dragged it to his belly.

Chen’s hand touched the soft fabric of Lazarus’s undershirt and he felt the flutter of something moving under the skin.

He grinned. “I feel xem!”

Then he made the mistake of looking up. Lazarus was utterly unguarded, smiling, soft brown eyes shining, and Chen was sure that he was equally exposed.

“I, uh…” Chen had no idea what to say. Lazarus was still pressing Chen’s hand into his belly.

The baby moved again, and they both laughed. Lazarus let go of Chen’s wrist and Chen let his hand drop. The moment was mercifully over.

“Yes, well — I’d best take my shower now,” said Lazarus. He continued on his way, and a few minutes later Chen heard the water come on. He used the time while Lazarus was in the head to change into a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Then he curled up in his place on the couch with his body pillow concealing his thickened prick before Lazarus crossed their quarters again.

 

“Hey? Can’t sleep?” Chen’s head appeared around the edge of the bookcase.

“No,” said Lazarus. “My apologies for disturbing you.” By now Lazarus was aware that Chen fell both into, and out of sleep easily. It wasn’t surprising that a little rustling and sighing would wake Chen, and he didn’t feel terribly guilty since Chen would drop right to sleep as soon as he lay back down on the couch.

“Is the baby still moving around?” asked Chen, coming fully into the nest area and leaning against the hydroponic garden.

“No. However it is increasingly difficult to find a comfortable position. I almost miss my spikes.”

Chen appeared amused by this. “I supposed there are fewer pressure points,” he said.

“Exactly. Now, if I lie on my back, my back aches abominably. If I lie on my side, my neck _and_ back ache abominably. The doctor informs me that I should lie on my side though, so I am.”

“I see,” said Chen, coming closer to the bed. He came right up to the head of it and looked at the pillow. He frowned and took the corner of the duvet. “Um, may I?”

“Yes, you may,” said Lazarus, curious as to what puzzle Chen was solving.

Chen pulled back the cover, frowned some more, then covered Lazarus back up. “You’re bad at this,” he said.

“Thank you, I had already concluded as much myself.”

“Here, sit up,” said Chen, laughing.

Lazarus complied. Chen took his pillow and sort of punched and rolled it a bit, then laid it at the head of the bed. He reached across the bed and grabbed the other pillow and set it on top of the first.

“Lie back down,” he said. Lazarus did so, and Chen adjusted the pillow a bit so that it met Lazarus’s head and neck just right. “Okay, hold on a minute.” Chen went out to the living area and came back with the long body pillow around which he always slept curled.

“Here,” he said, pulling back the duvet again, and placing the pillow in front of Lazarus. “Hug it and throw your leg over it.”

Lazarus pulled the pillow into his chest and placed the lower portion between his legs the way he had seen Chen do. It was very comfortable.

“This is… much better actually,” he said.

“When you sleep on your side you need more head and neck support. And the body pillow helps you align your hips so you aren’t twisting your spine all cattywampus.”

“Cattywampus?”

“It’s a technical term.” Chen smiled his “satisfactory solution found” smile at Lazarus and covered him back up.

“I can’t take your pillow though,” said Lazarus, making no move to relinquish it.

“I’ll requisition a new one in the morning,” said Chen. “I’ll be fine for one night. Get some sleep.”

“Thank you, Vincent.”

“You’re welcome, Lazarus.”

He left and Lazarus heard him lie down on the sofa once more. Already, Lazarus felt more relaxed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

The scent that always seemed to pervade these quarters filled his nose.

That was odd — Usually he didn’t consciously notice it once he’d been in the room for more than twenty minutes or so.

He attempted for the thousandth time to identify the smell. It shouldn’t be so difficult. The scent was very familiar. It smelled like… something happy… something delicious… something… stirring.

His eyes snapped open. He was noticing it now because it was stronger now.

It was stronger now because the pillow that he was hugging to his chest, the pillow that was right under his nose was saturated with it.

The same pillow that Chen wrapped himself around every night.

The scent that made Chen’s quarters seem so right and good?

It was Chen.

 

“What’s that you’re doing?” asked Chen. He had returned late to their quarters to find Lazarus wearing nothing but the bottom half of his pajamas and standing on one foot with his arms extended above his head. He considered just walking back out, but despite the fact that Lazarus hadn’t turned his head, Chen was sure he’d heard the swoosh of the door.

“ _Sind_ _’has dek_ Grabthar,” said Lazarus, moving slowly and gracefully from one complicated pose to another. “It means ‘the dance of Grabthar.” It’s a series of exercises designed to keep the mind and body supple and serene, and in a state of readiness for battle.”

“What are you planning on battling?” asked Chen, taking a seat on the couch and trying not to notice the delicate lavender ridge running down Lazarus’s back which, thanks to Sha’ree’s data crystal he now knew to be a major erogenous zone for the Mak’Tar.

“Insomnia,” said Lazarus. “I was hoping that executing a few forms before retiring might relax the muscles in my back.”

“It’s still a problem?” He had considered offering Lazarus a back rub, but had hesitated mainly due to the “fun times only” territory running right down the middle of it.

“The pillow helps immensely,” said Lazarus. “However, I don’t think anything short of simply having this baby is going to cure my backaches entirely.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Chen. He was trying not to watch, but the room wasn’t huge, and the whole display was very distracting. Lazarus twisted, and Chen could see his ridge disappear into the low-slung waist of his pants. Chen recalled that it went all the way down to join the sacrum.

“Do you always do this half-naked?” blurted Chen. He instantly regretted asking.

“I usually do this entirely naked,” said Lazarus. “It is impossible to complete the dance otherwise. Every muscle must be exercised. That’s why I usually practice in my old quarters.”

Every muscle. Right. Sha’ree’s excessively well-illustrated data crystal ensured that he knew exactly what Lazarus was referring to. He had spent the last few weeks diligently _not_ imagining how Lazarus’s anatomy might work with his own. Now he also knew that it was supple and battle-ready.

Chen concentrated on something further from the danger zone. This was also the first time he had seen the small vertical seam located just below Lazarus’s rib cage. It was sealed now, but it would open later to allow the baby to be born.

“Is this safe? For the baby?” asked Chen.

Lazarus smiled. “I assure you that I’m being cautious, Vincent. The doctor approved this regimen.”

“Okay, that’s… good,” said Chen, not knowing what else to say, and wondering when silence had gotten awkward anyway. About the time he’d started lusting after his pregnant roommate, he supposed. He was constantly reminding himself that Lazarus was pregnant, as if it might trigger some response — decency or distaste that would make him suddenly not want to contact every centimeter of Lazarus’s skin with his skin. It wasn’t working.

Lazarus brought his feet together and folded his hands in front of his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then picked up his robe. Apparently the dance of Grabthar was over. Lazarus pulled his robe on and sat on the couch next to Chen.

“The hour is rather advanced,” said Lazarus. “Did the beryllium sphere chamber claim your attention again?”

Several components of the ship’s drive had been damaged in a battle with the Eonids. Now the sphere chamber kept springing leaks.

“Mmm. We had to patch it again,” said Chen. “It should hold until we get to Gamma Station tomorrow.”

“Cmdr. Taggart mentioned that the Dock Master has acquired a replacement,” said Lazarus.

“Yeah, I’m not even upset that I’ll have to give up most of my shore leave to oversee the installation.”

“You’re not? I was under the impression that you have an inamorata on Gamma Station.”

Chen was surprised that Lazarus knew about Kaia.

“I have a friend who lives there. She and I used to… see each other when we had the chance. She’s in an exclusive relationship now. We’ll probably have lunch or something — catch up a little.”

“It wasn’t a close relationship?”

“I like Kaia, but we… had an understanding… that it wasn’t the kind of thing that would lead to a more committed thing. Now she’s met someone who she wants that with.”

“I was under the impression that unattached Humans simply met their sexual needs with willing strangers.”

Chen laughed. “We’re not _all_ Taggart, you know.”

“Lt. Madison also—”

“Or Tawny either,” said Chen. “Look, I don’t do well with one-night-stands, or even one-weekend-stands. I need to know someone a little first, you know?”

Lazarus did not appear to know. And Chen had no idea how to explain that he required a certain amount of intimacy to feel desire and a certain amount of distance to feel safe. In fact, he was pretty sure he didn’t want to explain any of that at all.

“I’m just not really attracted to strangers, so I have a few friends here and there that I have an understanding with, but they aren’t exclusive or meant to be long-term.”

“A girl in every port? Like in your old stories?” asked Lazarus.

“Hardly.” Chen smiled. “And some of them are guys.”

“You’re bisexual?” Lazarus laid his hand across his stomach the way he usually did when the baby was kicking.

“Yeah,” said Chen. “I don’t really… gender isn’t really a big part of what attracts me to someone. It’s more about other things.”

“Such as?”

“Knowing someone, liking them.” Was that what this was? Did he want Lazarus so much because they lived together and had gotten close what with the whole _ke_ _’mar_ thing?

“You require some degree of affection.”

“Yeah, I suppose I do.” Or was his attraction, his desire, so strong because he had feelings for Lazarus?

That was too much. Time to talk about something other than him and his emotional character.

“How about you?” asked Chen. “Sha’ree mentioned a few dozen times that most Mak’Tar are married by your age.”

“Those who follow the path of Grabthar rarely marry,” said Lazarus.

“Hard to find somebody else who wants to sleep on spikes?”

“A bit.”

“So what is it about that life that made you want to follow it?” If Lazarus could be nosy, so could Chen.

“It teaches one to channel one’s anger. To use it to defend the weak rather than lash out and do harm.”

“And you were angry?”

“I was, and sometimes still am, very angry.”

Chen nodded. “I’ve seen you go into berserker mode.”

“Does it alarm you?” Lazarus looked at Chen intently.

“No,” said Chen seriously. “It doesn’t. I’ve never seen you do anything like that except, like you say, to defend the weak.” He grinned. “Like me, for instance.”

“You’re not weak.”

“I wouldn’t last in a fight with Laredo,” said Chen, shaking his head and smiling.

“Perhaps not,” conceded Lazarus.

“Hey! You weren’t supposed to agree! I can totally take Laredo.”

“Let’s just say that when it comes to physical altercations, it’s to your benefit that you’re an excellent shot,” said Lazarus.

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair,” said Chen, and they were both laughing.

And it felt good — warm and friendly and comfortable — to laugh with Lazarus. It made Chen want things beyond skin.

Lazarus grew serious first. “There is another reason I chose that life. I was weary of the constant pressure to marry.”

Chen sobered as well. “And you don’t want to marry?”

“I’ve never met anyone with whom I wanted that.”

“No one?”

“Being gay does not simplify the process,” said Lazarus.

“Do the Mak’Tar forbid that kind of thing?” asked Chen.

“Oh, dear Ipthar, no. Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

Lazarus sighed. “Numbers. Around eighteen percent of Mak’Tar are gay or bisexual. There are approximately 1000 people in my peer group…”

“180 people…”

“Over half of whom are female or androgynous.”

“You chose to live in a grey box and sleep on spikes because you didn’t click with any of the 70 to 80 eligible bachelors of New Tev’Meck?”

“Did you miss the part where I explained my desire to control my anger?”

“No, of course not,” said Chen. “And I don’t blame you a bit for not wanting to marry somebody you don’t love. I’m sorry none of them were what you were looking for.”

 

Chen was sorry that none of them were what Lazarus was looking for.

Lazarus scowled at his instruments as if their screens personally offended him, but he was as oblivious to their readings as he was to the activity on the command deck at that moment.

He hadn’t been able to bring himself to say that Chen had it backwards. Lazarus wasn’t what _they_ were looking for.

Maybe he could have been. He was old enough now to admit that he had been quick to give others a reason to reject him rather than allow them to find one of their own. It had been easier to set himself beyond their reach — first by choosing the life of an ascetic, and then by exiling himself to the NSEA. Perhaps he would do things differently, given the chance.

Was he being given the chance?

He thought about Chen’s rapid pulse when he had grasped his wrist last month, the way Chen’s eyes had dilated when he’d looked up into Lazarus’s. Human sexual response was different from Mak’Tar — it was in fact, frustratingly opaque in comparison, but Lazarus was pretty sure he was reading this correctly. And Chen had confessed that he didn’t feel sexual attraction where his emotions were not at least somewhat engaged…

And Chen hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Lazarus last night. It could have been the novelty of a half-nude pregnant man doing stretches, but he doubted it. Chen was watching his spinal crest. Lazarus could feel it practically radiating under the attention still.

How did Chen know about that? How much information had Sha’ree given him, for Ipthar’s sake?

“Weee-ooo! _Protector_ to Lazarus! Come in, Dr. Lazarus! Report?” Taggart was turned in his command chair, looking expectantly at Lazarus.

“Forgive me,” mumbled Lazarus. He focused on his instrument panel. “Earth-like planet, 67 percent water. Atmospheric conditions favorable for Humans — Oxygen levels are low, but within safe parameters. There are several species of large fauna — mostly herbivores, but a few carnivorous species also exist within the study zone. Uploading a complete report to the field TABLITs now.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Taggart. “Lt. Madison, are the survey teams ready?”

“Already assembled in the pods, Commander.”

Taggart touched a button on his console. “Commander to Surface Pods — we are in orbit, and you are cleared for takeoff. Good luck down there. Taggart out.”

The next watch was already coming onto the command deck. Lazarus was looking forward to some time spent meditating in his old quarters.

He glanced toward Taggart. The commander was looking in his direction, with a most inauspicious look of speculation on his face.

“Hey, Doc.”

“Yes?”

“Mind having lunch with me in my quarters? I have a few things I’d like to go over with you this afternoon,” said Taggart.

“Of course, Commander,” replied Lazarus.

And so, following the general bustle of the watch change, Lazarus found himself in his familiar seat across the table from Taggart. A yeoman brought in a tray of food.

“Thank you, yeoman,” said Taggart. “You can just set it there.”

He set the tray on the table and left. Taggart uncovered his bowl and sniffed it appreciatively.

“Minestrone,” he said, picking up his spoon.

Lazarus lifted the cover of his plate. Whatever was there, the ship’s nutritionist would expect him to eat every bite. It was a Qorilian omelet. He picked up his fork.

“So, what’s up?” asked Taggart, dipping his roll into his soup.

“Up?” asked Lazarus.

“You’re preoccupied. You’re never preoccupied, not on the command deck, anyway.”

Lazarus studied his omelet.

“Is it baby stuff?” asked Taggart.

“Eloquent as ever, Peter,” said Lazarus. “It is not ‘baby stuff.’”

“Then what is it, Doc? I’m worried about you.”

“I’m —” Was there any point in prevarication? If he couldn’t trust Peter, whom could he trust?

“I believe I might be… in love, for lack of a better term.”

“In love?” Taggart dropped his spoon on the tray. “That’s great! That’s— Congratulations!”

“I believe congratulations are, at best, premature,” said Lazarus.

Taggart shook his head. “If you’ve told me once, you’ve told me a million times — ‘The followahs of Grabthah do not engage in romantic sentiment, Pee-tah.’ Not “I do not wish to, Pee-tah,’ or ‘Such things hold no intahrest foah me, Pee-tah.’ You’ve let somebody in, Lazarus. Believe me, I know how hard that is for you. So — congratulations.”

“You believe this is a worthwhile experience, despite my current painful uncertainty, and the likelihood of further distress should I be rejected?”

“Oh absolutely! I mean— just to be clear, we’re talking about Chen, right?”

Lazarus rolled his eyes. “Yes. Sgt. Chen.”

“Well, that’s no problem. Chen swings both ways.”

“How do you even know— ? Just because Sgt. Chen’s sexual orientation doesn’t preclude him from engaging in a romantic relationship with me, doesn’t mean that he’s interested in doing so.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Because I’m— I’m cold and detached — unemotional with the exception of my wretched temper.”

“You’re not cold. You’re reserved, and you have your reasons for that. Hell, Chen’s reserved too, even if he’s good at making it seem like he’s not. And he has no problems handling your temper. I’ve been watching you two — you’re good together.”

Lazarus sighed. “Vincent has been kindness and generosity incarnate. And he’s gentle, even when standing his ground. What do I have to offer to someone like that?”

“I think you’re selling your own capacity for kindness and generosity short, Doc, but if you were to ask me what you could offer Vincent Chen in particular, I’d say your perception. To someone as good at hiding in plain sight as he is, just having someone around who notices is pretty nice.”

“Even my own species finds me… challenging.”

“If I know Chen, that’s probably the icing on the cake. He likes a good challenge. Face it, Doc, you’re a catch.”

 

The sound was so low that Chen wasn’t sure why he was up and tripping over his body pillow (the new one because Lazarus said it was too fluffy and he preferred the old, flatter one) until he heard it again.

“ _Na, na, May, na sora._ ” It was Lazarus, obviously, but he was speaking in Makian.

“ _Os tara_ _’z, May. Na. Sora Maya, na. Os tara’z ki. Na._ ” Lazarus’s voice broke, sobbing, on the last syllable.

Chen was in the nest in a heartbeat. Lazarus was lying on his back. Tears shone on his face in the faint light.

“ _Sora Maya. Sora na._ ”

“Lazarus.” Chen pulled back the duvet a little so that he could put his hand on Lazarus’s shoulder. “Lazarus, wake up.”

Lazarus gasped as his eyes flew open.

“Vincent?”

“Yeah, I’m here. You were having a nightmare.”

Lazarus brought his hands up to his face to rub his eyes. He seemed surprised to find tears there.

“My apologies. It’s nothing, just a dream. You should get your rest.”

Chen considered leaving. It was more than just a dream, though. They both knew that. On the other hand, it wasn’t like Chen to pry… On the other other hand, staying wasn’t exactly prying. He moved the body pillow and sat on the edge of the bed.

“A linguist once told me that the word for ‘mother’ sounds the same across almost every culture,” Chen observed.

Lazarus sighed. “Sometimes I still dream of… what happened the night before... we left Tev’Meck. I haven’t, though, in years. I don’t know why I did tonight.”

“I think I might know,” said Chen. There was something wet and tacky on his hand where he had grabbed the body pillow. He reached up and touched the lamp with his clean hand. In its soft glow, he could see a pale pinkish-purple stain about the size of a dinner plate on the pillow-cover. He flipped the pillow over and showed Lazarus. “The baby’s coming.”

Chen pulled back the duvet to reveal a matching stain on the front of Lazarus’s pajamas.

“Come on, sit up a little.” Chen arrange the pillows behind Lazarus, then helped him to lie back onto them. “Sha’ree’s data crystal said that this position will help keep the juice in.”

Lazarus looked like he had comments to make on this piece of information, but Chen was already on his way to the head. “Just going to grab some towels,” he called as he went.

Chen was back a minute later with several dry towels and a couple of damp ones. He helped Lazarus out of his shirt and looked carefully at the opening in his pouch seam.

“Three and a half centimeters, give or take,” said Chen. He cleaned up Lazarus’s stomach with a warm towel, then laid a cool one over the seam. “It’s supposed to help the sting. Sit a little forward again.” Chen arranged the dry towels over the pillows, then eased Lazarus back. He had grabbed his vox on the way through the living area. He flipped it open and contacted the ship’s doctor. After giving her a report, he called Tawny and asked her to send a message to Sha’ree on New Tev’Meck.

“Do you need anything? Are you cold?” asked Chen.

“I would like my robe, thank you,” Lazarus replied. Chen retrieved it from its hook on the back of the bookcase and brought it to the bed.

“Sit forward again, and I’ll help you put it on.”

But Lazarus took his hand instead.

“Vincent, I’m not a malfunctioning reclamation unit.”

“A little too efficient?” asked Chen.

“I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to have you present.”

Chen smiled. “You want this robe, or what?”

Lazarus sat up and let Chen help him into the robe. Chen sat at the foot of the bed.

“I guess we have an hour or two to kill, according to the data crystal,” said Chen.

“I wondered where you were getting your information,” said Lazarus.

“Sha’ree wanted to make sure that I knew what I was doing. She was very thorough. I can probably name more of your organs than my own at this point.”

“In school, her reports were always twice as long as the instructors called for.”

“I’ll bet. Hey, let me know when you need another compress, okay? There’s no reason for this to hurt more than it has to.”

“I will. It isn’t nearly as painful as I had assumed it would be.”

Like the other time, thought Chen, the time you were dreaming about. He cast around for something less distressing to discuss.

“Have you thought up a name yet?” asked Chen. Mak’Tar had a baby name — a one-syllable handle for them to be called by until they developed a gender. Traditionally, it was chosen by the person who bore the child.

“I’ve thought of a couple, should Sha’ree reject my first choice. I don’t think she will, however.”

“What is it?”

“I’m confident that the crystal included the information that it’s bad luck to tell anyone before telling the mother.”

“Since when do you believe in luck?”

“Since it is convenient for me to do so,” said Lazarus archly.

Chen laughed.

The door chimed, followed by the voice of the ship’s doctor. “Are you going to let me in, or do I have to try and remember my medical override code at 3 a.m.?”

“Enter,” said Chen. The door slid open.

There followed an examination by the doctor, more compresses, a corpsman with a bassinet full of necessary items, a nurse, Tawny with the message that Sha’ree had just boarded a transport and would be reaching the rendezvous point with the _Protector_ in seven hours, and just a general quiet hubbub which Chen successfully kept mostly to the other side of the bookcases.

And then it was time. Chen sat on the bed, on the side next to the wall, leaving the open side for the doctor to work. The nurse stood at the foot of the bed, in front of the violets, holding some receiving blankets. She had placed a more water-proof barrier between Lazarus and the bed some time earlier. The doctor issued instructions — “Bend your knees a little, Dr. Lazarus, and lean forward.”

Lazarus took Chen’s hand, and for what felt like a very long second, he held Chen’s gaze.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I’m here,” answered Chen.

And, if you’ll let me, I’ll stay here, he thought.

Lazarus leaned forward, the pressure of his thighs against his belly causing the volvac sac to bulge out of the opening of the pouch.

“Here we go,” said the doctor, and she quickly slashed the sac with a small, old-time scalpel. Chen could see what looked like the crest on the baby’s head come sliding out of the sac along with about a liter of clear fluid. The doctor snatched one of the blankets from the nurse, and using it to stabilize her grip, she grasped the sac on either side of the slash, and pulled upward. The nurse stepped forward with another blanket and took the baby around xyr tiny chest, pulling xem free of both the sac and Lazarus’s body.

Time seemed to stretch again as the child was held in front of Lazarus, and Chen watched his expression of pain and shock dissolve into wonder.

Then everything snapped back. The nurse had the child’s head supported against her arm in one practiced movement. She cleared the child’s airways, checked xem with a medical scanner, wrapped xem up, and handed the whole bundle of squirming, mewling baby to Chen in about two minutes.

“How is xe?” asked Lazarus.

“Covered in gunk and I think a little pissed off right now, honestly,” said Chen, smiling besottedly at the bundle.

“I’m sure it was much cozier where xe came from,” said Lazarus.

Chen tore his attention from the baby to look at Lazarus. “Xe’s beautiful, Lazarus. Perfect.”

 

Lazarus was nursing the baby for the last time when Sha’ree arrived.

“Here’s someone who’ll have some real milk,” he whispered to the infant. The colostrum he had produced was essential to xem, but Lazarus had almost dried up now, and xe was wanting more in xyr belly.

“May I enter the nest?” asked Sha’ree. Chen was behind her, hanging back a little, Lazarus noted.

“Of course you may,” said Lazarus.

Sha’ree came immediately to the side of the bed and pulled the blanket gently away from the baby’s face. “Xe’s beautiful!”

“That was Vincent’s opinion when he first saw xem.”

Sha’ree glanced toward Chen, then back at the baby. “Well… _Vincent_ seems to be a very good judge of babies.”

The infant made a face and began to cry.

“Xe’s also very hungry,” said Lazarus.

Sha’ree grimaced. “Let me fix that before xyr crying causes me to need a fresh _sennes_.” Sha’ree sat on the opposite end of the bed, leaning against the footboard. She untied her jacket and blouse, and held out her arms. “Sgt. Chen, could you..?”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” said Chen. He took the child from Lazarus and placed xem in Sha’ree’s arms. There was a bit of fumbling, but finally, the baby seemed to be getting what xe wanted.

“By what name should we call this child, honored one?” Sha’ree asked, initiating the naming ritual.

“I offer the name, ‘Vin,’ for this child.” replied Lazarus. He looked up at Chen just in time to see him blush and attempt to school his expression into something less than pure shocked pleasure.

Sha’ree smiled at Lazarus. “I find this name to be good and I accept it for the child,” she said. “Xe shall be called ‘Vin’ until xe knows xyr nature.”

Sha’ree could only stay an hour. The _Protector_ had been diverted from a time-sensitive mission in order to rendezvous with her transport. Chen walked her to the pod bay and saw her and Vin off. When he came back, he poked his head around the bookcase to ask if Lazarus was hungry.

“I’m…” Lazarus was hungry, but he didn’t think he could swallow anything right now. “I’m…”

Tears fell. He didn’t even try to hide them.

Chen sat on the bed facing Lazarus. He took his hand for the third time in less than a day, and he finished Lazarus’s sentence.

“…sad,” said Chen.

Once he was cried out (and Chen had put an arm around him and let him literally cry on his shoulder), Lazarus slept for ten hours straight.

Chen continued to care for Lazarus over the next few days while the opening of his pouch returned to normal. Finally, the doctor gave Lazarus permission to return to restricted duty — “Just for a week or so, Doctor,” she said, “then you should be able to resume your normal activities.”

Lazarus decided it was time to move back to his own quarters.

Chen helped him pack the items from his nest into totes. It required barely an hour to accomplish.

“I’ve no idea what to do with the painting,” said Lazarus. “It’s too cumbersome to fit in storage.”

“You can leave it,” said Chen, “if you want. It’s pretty, and better than looking at the back of bookcases. Besides, then it’s already there if you want it again.”

“You’re offering..?”

“Of course I’m offering.”

“Thank you, Vincent. I already owe you so much, though.”

“You don’t. I love… loved having you here.”

They stood looking at each other until it grew awkward, and then until it grew even more awkward.

Lazarus picked up the tote containing his personal items. “I’ll have a crewman come and remove these others and the hydroponic garden.”

“I’ll carry that one,” said Chen. He took the tote from Lazarus.

“Right.”

They walked to the lift, rode it up three levels, then walked down the long corridor to the forward end of the ship. During the entire walk, Lazarus silently, heatedly argued with himself.

This was ridiculous. The very worst outcome Lazarus could expect was that Vincent would gently explain why they could never be together in the way that Lazarus very deeply desired for them to be together, and then Vincent would never breathe a word about it to any living soul.

And the very best…

But first, he needed to open his mouth and say something.

By this point, they were at Lazarus’s quarters.

“You kept the bed,” said Chen, depositing the tote on it.

“It will take some time to reacclimate to the spikes,” said Lazarus.

He needed to say something or else resign himself to sleeping on those spikes for the rest of his life.

“I suppose it would.” Chen wiped his hands down the front of his jacket.

Say it.

“Vincent, I—”

“Lazarus—”

They both laughed nervously.

“You first,” said Lazarus.

Chen took a deep breath.

“Lazarus Kir’ruslan’Mekarastorl, I would like to declare my intention to court you. Will you accept me as your suitor?”

Well, that was…

That was Chen initiating the Mak’Tar courtship ritual.

That was something Lazarus had never thought to hear — from anyone.

 _Ever_.

He hadn’t the faintest idea what the ritual response was.

And now he was frozen, watching Chen’s expression go from hopeful, to hurt, to _unperturbed_.

“Umm. Okay. It’s okay. Forget I said anything.” Chen pivoted and left.

Warvan’s tits!

What was it? How did it go? He’d seen it often enough in books, on holos.

Lazarus racked his brain, but it was no use. He’d never paid attention because he’d never thought anyone would ask.

Alright, so he didn’t know. The point now was that Chen was getting farther away.

And he was hurting. And that wasn’t acceptable.

He needed to find Chen — now.

He hurried out to the corridor. No Chen. Whichever way he had gone, he had already disappeared around the curve of the ship.

His quarters, then? No. Chen’s shift started soon, and he’d prefer to throw himself into the intricate puzzles of the ship’s systems anyway.

Engineering or the command deck.

Lazarus chose the command deck as the closer of the two and went there as quickly as his still-healing pouch allowed.

He was lucky. Chen was there, standing at his station, his back to the door.

For a moment it occurred to Lazarus that he was going to do this in front of the entire command staff, but then he remembered that this ritual was usually enacted in the presence of both participant’s families, and suddenly, it felt right. He walked over to Chen and spoke.

“Vincent.”

Chen turned around.

“If someone had asked me twenty minutes ago whether anyone would ever say to me the words you just said, I would have told them that the heat death of the universe would occur first. I never expected anyone to want to… woo me, so I have no idea what the proper response is, but — yes, Vincent Chen, I accept you. I would be deeply honored to do so.”

Chen smiled, big and bright and elated, and it sucked the air out of Lazarus to think that having him could make Chen so happy.

“The next step is you’re supposed to kiss me,” said Chen, quietly, “but if you’d rather do that somewhere more private, I’d understand.”

Lazarus shook his head. “Not unless you do.”

Chen moved closer, brought his face right up to Lazarus’s. “This is fine.”

It was a movement of two centimeters to touch Chen’s lips with his own. It felt like the distance between New Tev’Meck and Earth. But as soon as they did touch, Lazarus could feel something luminous blossoming between them. He pulled Chen closer. He felt Chen grip his arms. He felt the warm blossoming thing grow, cracking him open, swirling inside his ribcage. He drew back and looked at Chen, wondering if it felt the same to him. It obviously felt good, judging from the look on his face.

“Do you think we should tell the others?” asked Chen.

“Great!” shouted Laredo. “They kissed! Can we _please_ talk about something else around here now?”

“Oh, I think they’ll figure it out in due time,” said Lazarus.

 

 

***

 

 

 _Galactic Love_ published the fic. I was accepted on the panel. By that time, Quest Con was being held at the beginning of May, rather than June, which I thought was lucky since my summer job started Memorial Day weekend.

Two days before con was scheduled to start, a jury handed down the verdict in the Rodney King trial.

I mean, in the grand scheme of things, Quest Con 13 getting canceled is beyond minor — but anyway, that’s why I wasn’t in L.A. the weekend of May first, 1992.

So I was home that Friday when one of my old bosses from a B&B I used to work at called and told me that there was a wedding at the inn tomorrow and the person who usually supplied bread for events had fallen through and could I help?

So I baked Parker House rolls all night and they got lots of compliments and one of the guests was opening a coffee shop and could I bake for him?

So I baked for the coffee shop, and eventually the coffee shop became five coffee shops. I worked all night at the largest of the shops baking treats with two stoners, one of whom told me that he’d been looking at apartments that day and one of the apartments was a single for only 275 dollars per month.

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

“It’s in an attic. Anyone over five and a half feet tall can’t stand up in half of it,” he said.

Well, I’m under five and a half feet tall.

So I moved to my own apartment with no roommates, unless you count my cat, Lola.

Oh yeah, I got a cat – a rare calico who turned out to be male. It’s a mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up world.

And people kept coming into the coffee shop and wanting a dozen muffins or cookies or bagels, which is not how you run a coffee shop. You’re supposed to sell one muffin or cookie or bagel with the coffee.

So the owner decided to open a bakery, because selling things by the dozen _is_ how you run a bakery. I declined to manage the thing.

But I _am_ the head baker. We don’t do bread or doughnuts or cakes because K’zoo already boasts an excellent bread bakery and a terrific doughnut shop, and cakes are a pain in the ass. We still bake coffee shop stuff — bagels, muffins, cookies, scones, and pie. Everyone knows that the Arcadia Café Bakery has the best pies in three counties.

And maybe I’m still drifting, but at least I have a savings account now. And a car, although I still hate driving. But hey, this is Michigan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a child, Dr. Lazarus barely escaped when his planet was destroyed by the Meechans. Dr. Lazarus is carrying something called a "volvac sac" which contains an embryo that came from his mother. Those two tidbits are canon according to [Travis Latke's Galaxy Quest Page](http://web.archive.org/web/20000819162953/http://www.galaxyquest.com/galaxyquest/). There's a fair amount of fridge horror there, and I sort of ran with it. Dr. Lazarus' back story is that his mother placed three of these volvac sacs in her son's body before placing him on one of the few ships to manage to escape during what became known as the The Devastation of Tev'Meck. The process was painful and Dr. Lazarus is understandably still scarred by these events. He has avoided carrying the embryos within the volvac sacs to term, but has now decided to do so before they basically become non-viable. So he didn't really choose to be pregnant, and he's ambivalent about carrying out what he (and every other member of his species) regards as his duty.
> 
> That said, the short story is mostly a sweet little romance.
> 
> Songs! (Well, song. This wasn't a very musical chapter.)  
> Leonard Cohen -- [Take This Longing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2j2BLHpQOI) \-- The original is better, in my opinion, but this version sung by Peter Astor is the one that was on the album, _I'm Your Fan_ , that Mary Sue picked up in 1991.


	9. Mary Sue's Fourth Time Trip -- 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine solves puzzles and breaks the Prime Directive of Interacting With the Talent -- never show them the fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some more mentions of domestic violence in this chapter, as well as a reminiscence of a horny teenager being horny.
> 
> If you wish to read the fic that Mary Sue writes for Alex in this chapter, it's here -- [My Heart Will Be Waiting.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345128)

I’m sitting curled into a ball, head in my hands, my back pressed against something hard and lumpy. It’s digging into my spine, which I’m only feeling now that the sharks have swum away.

Experimentally, I pick up my head and lower my hands.

Fred and Laliari look very concerned.

And also very present.

I’m not quite ready to dive right into testing my memory, so instead I assess my situation — sitting on the floor, back against… the bed. The end of the rail that holds the mattress is the hard thing. Fred and Laliari are also sitting on the floor, leaning toward me.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I clear my throat. “Making that many new memories is… uncomfortable.”

“It looked it,” says Fred.

“It scared the piss out of Mi-Na, let me tell you.”

I seem to have lost my glasses again.

“I can’t say that I blame her.” Fred stands and offers me his hand. I take it and let him haul me up.

Laliari hugs me, so I hug her back.

“Mi-Na disappeared and your new suitcase became your old suitcase as soon as you entered the accelerator,” she says.

I poke a little at my memory. My terrible marriage is gone, though not entirely forgotten. The bakery, the boyfriends, Lola are all back. Randomly, I realize that the wedding I catered seven years ago was Caroline’s.

All of the time trips are also mine again — including the emotions. All of them.

And that’s way more than I can process right now. Fred and Laliari are still here. Clearly, there’s more to do.

I give them a brief synopsis of my last time-trip while digging through my suitcase, hoping to find some glasses.

“My timeline appears to have reverted to what it was, more or less,” I say. “ _Galaxy Quest_ plays in every English-speaking country, and more than a few non-English-speaking countries. So what’s up? Why are you guys still here?”

“No clue,” sighs Fred.

No glasses there either. I try the knapsack. Bingo. The small wire oval frames I was wearing when I got here the first time.

“Okay,” I say. “Look, I’m going to change and head down to the floor. I don’t want Cece to worry.”

Fred nods, and I head into the bathroom. I change quickly, brush on a little makeup, and head out, taking my cell phone with me. By then, it’s about five minutes to ten.

I’m supposed to meet Cece for a panel on mapping the _Galaxy Quest_ universe. I love these things and, honestly, I could use the relative normalcy of sitting around and discussing this stuff as though the writers were providing valuable clues to a coherent cosmos rather than just pulling things out of their asses.

I think about those reading sessions with Elliot and Ros, and I smile.

“A penny for your thoughts.” It’s Cece. I move my bag so that she can sit next to me.

“Oh, the old days,” I say. “That’s what us geriatric fans do, you know — contemplate how much better things used to be.”

“Any particular old days?” she asks.

I can’t resist. “Quest Con 4. Remember?”

“Girl, I will never forget. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten so much done in one month.”

“It was worth it though.”

“Easy for you to say!” She gives me a little mock-punch to the arm. “But I admit, it was the best venue we’ve ever had. It’s too bad it couldn’t hold the larger cons. They still hold GalCon there though. Ever been?”

GalCon — the Galactic Conference – is a meeting of the _Galaxy Quest_ gamers — there’s a few tabletop games, a MUD that’s still going surprisingly strong, a turn-based strategy game, and — brand new this year — a MMORPG. There’s even a card game. I wouldn’t be surprised if GalCon eventually got too big for the Loevinger too.

“I’m lucky to get to California as often as I do, but I went to the first one, in Chicago. It was one of the few cons I could afford at the time. Sixty bucks round trip on Amtrak and I stayed with Mi-Na.”

Afterward, Cece has a lunch thing with the other organizers. I call up to the room to ask Fred and Laliari if they’d like me to bring any food for them, but they’ve already ordered room service. I grab a blueberry muffin from the Starbucks in the lobby and eat it on the way up to the room. Laliari says that the _Protector_ is operating just fine.

“Can you think of anything that’s changed?” Fred asks.

“The problem is, my head is full of too many things that have changed,” I say. “And I’m exhausted. I don’t have to meet Cece again until four. It’s twelve-thirty now. Let me get a couple hours’ sleep, and then I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

“You will be much more efficient when you’ve rested,” agrees Laliari.

I set the alarm, kick off my shoes, and sack out on the side of the bed nearest the window.

I’m asleep almost immediately. Thankfully, I don’t have nightmares.

Instead, I dream of Alex.

Nice dreams.

Very nice dreams.

When I wake up, I wonder if he would remember me if I were to show up at one of the signing tables.

Too bad he lives in Britain now.

“Alex isn’t here!” I say, sitting up.

“We know,” says Fred. “Right after you fell asleep, Laliari tried the ship again. Alex isn’t aboard. Apparently he wasn’t even at the con.”

“He moved back to Britain…” I try to remember. “He was scheduled to be at 13. I remember because Cece said she wanted to introduce us — but then it was canceled, and when they held it the following year, he was already gone.”

“Why?” asks Fred.

“He got a part in a mini-series,” I say, staring at the bed as if Alex’s IMDb page were written there. “ _Return of the Native_. He played Clym Yeobright. He was in a biopic about Florence Nightingale, and another about Tolstoy. He had a role in a series about a safe-cracker that lasted less than a full season. It’s mostly been costume dramas, though.

“There was talk about him being at 16. He had to cancel, but he did give an interview to _GQN_.”

 _GQN — Galaxy Quest News_ is an official zine that comes out four times a year. It usually has interviews with the people who made _Galaxy Quest_ , as well as news stories about basically anything even vaguely associated with the show. This quarter there’s a whole article about how flip phones were inspired by the vox.

“The question is — how did Gath’gor arrange to get Alex a part?” asks Fred.

“He’s been known to impersonate other people on the phone. I think whatever device he uses as a translator can mimic other voices.”

“The Fatu-Krey have that technology,” says Laliari.

“So he pretends to be someone important, gets Alex an audition,” I say. “Would Alex go all the way back to Britain just for a shot at a role?”

“Yes,” says Fred.

“But how would Gath’gor keep him there?”

“Work.”

I shake my head. “He’s not exactly landing plum roles. Clym Yeobright was the biggest one.”

“Alex needs work like most people need air. He gets in a very bad place when he’s not working. Don’t get me wrong, I love acting, but Alex? It’s his whole reason for being.”

I rub my head.

“Okay, so luring him to Britain and keeping him there is not a legendary feat.”

Maybe I can talk Alex into making the sacrifice and staying in America, but not without giving him even more information, and I really don’t think that’s wise. I could ask him to just trust me, but that seems unfair, and I’m not sure it would work. Let’s face it, I’d be asking a lot.

I wish I had more to go on.

I glance at the clock — nearly three.

“I’m gonna take a shower and go see if I can hunt up that copy of _GQN_ ,” I say. “It’s not very old. Someone has to have it. Maybe it’ll have something useful.”

At least it’s doing something.

On the ride back down, it occurs to me that I don’t have to stop Alex from going to Britain. I just need to convince him to be here for this con. Except I can’t go to London unless Laliari can get a passport from wherever she got the stacks of twenties, and even if I could, my mere presence would alert him to the fact that something’s going down and that he has some personal involvement with it.

I wonder if he’s happy.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I really even want to know, since it won’t make a difference except to make this even more difficult if he is. If it comes down to Laliari’s (and Fred’s, Gwen’s, Tommy’s, and Jason’s) life or Alex’s happiness, I know what I’ll choose, but I won’t like it.

And this is my cheerful state of mind when I run into Shondra and Darius. You remember Darius, right? From the Art Institute? He and Shondra really hit it off.

“There you are!” says Shondra. “Where’s Trent?”

“I was beginning to think you’d been eaten by a Kreemorian Fangor beast,” says Darius.

Darius got into _Galaxy Quest_ when he and Shondra started dating. He’s well… very enthusiastic about it.

“Hey, Shondra. He stayed home,” I say, and I give her a hug. “Hey, Darius.” I give him a hug too. “Nice cosplay.”

Darius is wearing the rather mossy costume of a Konthraxxian squid wrangler. He menaces me with one of those sticky octopi that walk down walls.

“Leave it you to meticulously craft a costume, then accessorize it with toys from a gumball machine,” I say.

“I keep trying to get him to do a Tauren dancer, but no dice,” says Shondra.

“Maybe when they hold one of these in a hotel that doesn’t have the AC cranked to arctic,” says Darius.

“How did you ever survive Michigan?” asks Shondra.

“It was hell. I’m lucky my princess finally came and rescued me.”

Shondra rolls her eyes. “You see what I put up with?”

“You’re a woman of great fortitude, Shondra,” I say.

“Well, he is pretty cute…” The grins they give each other are… well… eight years now, and I guess the honeymoon isn’t over yet.

“Um… guys?”

“Sorry,” says Shondra. She’s not sorry.

“I’m headed to the dealers’ room,” I say. “Where’re you off to?”

“We were just wandering,” says Darius. “We can wander with you awhile.”

As we walk, Shondra asks me if I have a fic in any of the zines this year.

“No,” I say. “I didn’t write any this year.”

“What? You write something every year.”

“I did write something,” I say. “It just wasn’t a fanfic.”

“What was it?” asks Shondra.

“You remember me telling you a few years ago about an idea I had for a mystery novel?”

“Uh-huh. You wrote it?”

“I wrote it. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I wrote it.”

“Congratulations, Mary Sue,” says Darius. “A whole novel — wow.”

Writing it was the easy part. I haven’t the faintest idea how to even get started on getting it published. This is exactly the sort of thing my brain balks at — too many steps, too many interactions, too many hoops to navigate. And for what? A pile of rejection letters?

I’ve probably spent the bulk of last year creating drawer-fic. Or three-and-a-half-inch-floppy-fic.

And oh boy, is that a problem for another day.

We get to the dealers’ room and I start searching for someone with back issues of _GQN_.

Shondra asks what I’m looking for, and I explain it to her.

“I have all the issues, honey. I can photocopy anything you want and mail it to you.”

“That’s sweet, thanks.” How do I explain that I need to re-read an interview with Alexander Dane right-this-very-second-now? “I have them all too, but uh… Lola puked on that one. My fault really, for not putting it away. I’d like to replace it if at all possible.”

Shondra and Darius volunteer to help me look. It’s Shondra who finds it. The dealer wants fifteen dollars for it. Honestly, the prices this year! It’s extortion. I pay the guy, though.

“Listen, guys,” I say. “Since this thing is worth its weight in gold, I think I’ll just go put it away before something happens to it. Catch you later?”

“Yeah, see you at dinner if we don’t see you before,” says Shondra.

Oh fuckety-fuck. I’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to go to the awards banquet with Shondra and Darius and Cece tonight.

“Sure thing!” I say.

The truth is, I’m being rubbed raw. Lack of sleep, mysteries that need to be solved on a timer, everything my poor brain has been through in the last week, and the weight of people depending on me — it’s all getting overwhelming. I can’t even go back to my room and be alone right now.

So I head up to the roof.

This one’s not so bad, as far as things that are way too high go. Since it’s not in the city proper, there’s no helipad, just a wall around the fans for the ventilation shaft. I don’t need to go within twenty feet of the edge, basically. I go sit on the eastern side of the wall where it’s shady. With my head on level with the parapet, and my back against cool, solid concrete, I feel pretty safe actually.

I take out my zine and read.     

> Afternoon Tea — An Interview With Alexander Dane, by Kelly Patatnik
> 
>  
> 
> I’ve often felt jealous of the long-time Questarians — the veterans who attended Quest Con in those golden days of yore (before 1992). Why, you ask? Because they had the opportunity to meet Alexander Dane, the actor who portrayed my (and many others’) favorite character, Dr. Lazarus. I’m sure that it must have been thrilling to see him in person — and in full costume! “What I wouldn’t give,” I’ve thought, “to hear that familiar and distinctive baritone in person.”
> 
> Well, it looks as if I’ll have to wait awhile yet to realize my dreams, but in the meantime, I did get the chance to speak one-on-one with Alex by phone last week when he graciously agreed to an interview.
> 
> Our call was at 2:00 p.m. here in Minneapolis — teatime — so to get in the proper frame of mind, I brewed myself a cup of Earl Grey and grabbed a scone.
> 
>  
> 
> K.P.: May I start off by saying what an honor it is to speak with you?
> 
> A.D.: The honor is all mine.
> 
> K.P.: Did you always want to be an actor?
> 
> A.D.: Actually, I had planned to study law. But, as it turns out, I had no passion for it. When I discovered the stage, I discovered my passion, and I’ve never looked back since.
> 
> K.P.: What drew you to the role of Dr. Lazarus?
> 
> A.D.: Mainly the script. I was delighted with the depth of the character, and I relished the opportunity to play someone whose thoughts and actions were informed by both an alien upbringing and an alien biology. And, of course, there are the deep wounds of the tragedies that have befallen him. It was such a substantial role — I simply couldn’t resist it.
> 
> K.P.: Almost six years ago you made the decision to move to London. Why?
> 
> A.D.: Better public transportation. [ _laughs_ ] I’m joking, of course. Well, I was in Los Angeles at the time. I had just finished _A Popular Scandal_ , a play based on the tempestuous love affair between Sir Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh — it was the final night of the run, as a matter of fact — when I received a visit from my agent at the time, Nora White. She asked if I would be interested in doing a BBC series based on Thomas Hardy’s _Return of the Native_. Well, of course I was very interested. I was on the earliest flight available.
> 
> K.P.: And do you plan to ever return to L.A.? Or the United States?
> 
> A.D.: Excellent question! I’m afraid that’s impossible right now, or for the foreseeable future. I have become rather ensnared, you see.
> 
> K.P.: Ensnared?
> 
> A.D.: Rather. It turns out that London is a bit of a trap for the unwary. It’s far more seductive than one would suspect at first glance. Once an innocent succumbs to its wiles, they find that all attempts to leave are futile. [laughs] No, but I do find that whenever I consider such a move, somethings always interrupts, and any attempts to return are thwarted.
> 
> K.P.: Well I, for one, hope that you can break free soon and join us here.
> 
> A.D.: Just as I do. But for right now, London is where I can be found.
> 
> K.P.: You said that acting is your great passion. Are there any others? Someone special perhaps?
> 
> A.D.: Oh, my love-life is most uninteresting. I wouldn’t want to bore your readers.
> 
> K.P.: I’m sure they wouldn’t be bored at all.
> 
> A.D.: I’m afraid it’s been many years since I last met anyone with whom I shared that particular spark.
> 
> K.P.: Okay, one more question — could you describe your perfect day?
> 
> A.D.: Each day where the work goes well. Each day that ends with good conversation and good food in the company of a friend. To me, that is a day that is very sweet.
> 
> K.P.: Very sweet, indeed. Thank you for your time.
> 
> A.D.: Thank you, Kelly. And thank you to all of the _Galaxy Quest_ fans for your continued interest and support.

Well, then.

Tentatively, I poke a bit at my memories. I’m not wrong.

No, I’m sure I’m not. But I need one more piece of information before I can act.

I pull out my phone and check the time — 3:18 p.m. I have enough time to talk to Fred and Laliari before I need to meet up with Cece.

I head back down to the room.

“What’s the name of Alex’s agent?” I ask when I get there. I look around. “Where’s Laliari?”

“She’s taking a bath. It’s how they hydrate,” says Fred. “And his name is Martin… Something. Why?”

I hand him the zine, already open to the interview.

Fred reads it, scowling a little. “I’m not sure what I should be seeing,” he says. “Lying about his agent is odd. But Alex being weird and pretentious in an interview? That’s just par for the course.”

“Look at what else he says there — about the play. That’s very specific. That’s the target place and time. The last night of that play.”

“I’m sorry, Mary Sue,” says Fred. “I’m still not following you.”

“By 1997, he knows something’s up. Someone is keeping him in England, somehow. He used this interview to get a message to me. Nora White — he knows I played Nora Helmer and Bianca in _The Taming of the Shrew_. Bianca means ‘white.’”

“Yeah, I know that,” says Fred. “Alex knows you’re a time traveler?”

“Um, yeah. I’m sorry, Fred,” I say. “With everything else that’s been happening, I forgot to tell you. Alex was in Frank’s office when I got called back after the chompers. He saw me disappear. Frank and Elliot told him.”

“Elliot knows you’re a time traveler?”

“I can’t do anything about it now. I probably couldn’t have done the things I needed to do on the last time trip without them knowing, and I definitely won’t be able to do what I need to do this time without Alex knowing. It’s been nine years, Fred. 46-year-old women look very different from 37-year-old ones.”

“You’re right.” He smiles at me. “So we need to find out when and where this play ran. Why then, I wonder?”

“No idea,” I say. “But I’m going to have to trust him. He clearly didn’t want me going to London.”

“Okay. Laliari and I will get on it as soon as she comes out.”

I hold up my phone. “Call me if you need anything. I suspect Cece and Shondra are going to keep me busy for the rest of the day.”

But first, I stop at the Starbucks again.

“Hi. If I were interested in ingesting a heroic dose of caffeine accompanied by enough sugar and dairy to make it palatable, what would you suggest?”

Yes, I work or a small chain of coffee shops and I hate coffee.

“Hot or cold?” asks the barista, a guy named Christopher.

“Cold. I basically want coffee ice cream capable of keeping me up until midnight.”

“Iced brewed coffee with as much cream and flavor syrup as the cup will allow.”

“Awesome I’ll take a… really big one.”

“A venti?”

I give him a thumbs up.

The coffee is really great, actually. Christopher added hazelnut syrup. I tip him five bucks.

I meet Cece in the music room. The filk singers are just leaving and they’re setting up for Mank’Nar karaoke. She looks harried.

“I had to find a last-minute emcee for karaoke,” she says

Shondra and Darius wander in a few minutes later. Darius is a Mank’Nar general now.

After that, we head to the awards banquet. Fred calls during dinner.

“I think you’re going to want to locate a wig,” he says.

“Oookaaay.”

“You’re at dinner?”

“Yup.”

“Find a wig,” he says. “Something natural, but as different from your own hair as possible.”

“Will do,” I say.

I ask the others if they know where I might find a cosplay I can borrow. Darius says he brought a Delosian costume that might fit me.

“I was going to wear it tomorrow, but I forgot the clan plaque, and I didn’t want to wear one I hadn’t made myself. However, I did see some pretty good replicas in the dealers’ room.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say. “I just need it for a… little surprise I just thought of.” It does sound perfect. Delosians have short, curly, blond hair.

Since we’ve finished dinner and are just waiting for dessert, Darius and I go fetch the costume. I drop it off with Fred.

“Why do I need a wig?”

“It occurred to me that you may require a disguise,” says Laliari. If Dr. Lazar— I mean, Alexander’s movements are being monitored in 1997, there is a strong possibility that they are also being monitored in 1992.”

“You think someone’s watching him?”

“He sent a coded message, Mary Sue,” says Fred. “Also, Laliari checked into the production company that made the Thomas Hardy thing. One of their largest shareholders is Steve Gagorian.”

“The fuck? Why is he still using the same name?” I ask.

“Perhaps he wishes to be found,” says Laliari.

“Maybe Gath’gor wanted Alex to figure it out eventually and try to get a message to me. So he does, and he even says that he can be found in London on the day he gave the interview, but the real message is to come to the theater, I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe the whole interview is just to lure you to the theater that night,” says Fred. “After all, Gath’gor can imitate voices, and the interview was over the phone.”

I consider this.

“No,” I say slowly shaking my head. “It was really Alex. Twice he uses words that he knows would have… extra meaning to me.”

“Twice?” asks Fred.

“That bit at the end — about the company of a friend being sweet. He isn’t just being poetic. He’s referencing… some of our conversations.”

“How close are you and Alex?” he asks.

“Pretty close,” I say.

For just a second, Fred looks… inscrutable, but it passes. He smiles at me and nods.

“I owe Cece twenty bucks,” he says.

Laliari holds up her PDA. “I was able to find a review of the play in the archives of the Los Angeles Times,” she says. “The reviewer was favorably impressed by Alexander’s ability to lie, but felt that the lies themselves were poorly conceived.”

“Yeah, I was pretty sure the show was a turkey,” I say, turning my attention from Fred to Laliari. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

“That gives us the where,” says Fred, “but not the exact when. I’ll give you a call when we figure it out.”

So I head back to the main ballroom.

The banquet runs until ten, then Cece wants to go to the Mr. Adonis Factor contest.

By the time Fred calls, it’s nearly midnight. Also, I’ve managed to get baby oil smeared on my left lens by a rather enthusiastic contestant who gyrated a little too close to our table.

I’m on my second Coke, and definitely getting the caffeine jitters. I’m lucky I haven’t set my heart off.

Cece wants to go to the roof next. Shondra’s done though.

“Come on, Mary Sue,” says Cece. “Maybe we’ll find Fred. I haven’t seen him all day.”

“He’s in space,” I say.

“Well, I hope he gets back before the closing ceremony tomorrow,” she says. “Fleegman flaking on me today was bad enough. I don’t need another actor going missing.”

“I have to get my sweater first, and it’s going to take soap to get this off my glasses,” I say. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Good idea. I’m going to get mine too.”

When I get back to the room, Fred informs me that Laliari finally managed to find the theater’s schedule for 1992.

“The last night for _A Popular Scandal_ was October fourth,” says Laliari.

“We’re going to put you right in Alex’s dressing room, at ten o’clock,” says Fred. “I have no idea when the show ends, but it starts at eight.”

I nod.

I grab my knapsack and pull out everything but the underwear.

“Your glasses!,” says Laliari. I hand them to her.

I’m too wired to come up with an appropriate costume. I’m already wearing my “dressy” outfit — a silky, sage green slip dress, one of those long, black, crocheted dusters that only fasten over the boobs, and my black dress flats. I stuff my only remaining clean dress into the knapsack. I stick the wig and the zine in too.

Laliari hands me my glasses, all clean and with a fresh coating of whatever-it-is on them.

I step into the Accelerator and nod to Laliari. She punches some buttons and nods back. I smile at her and Fred, then I dissolve into golden sparkles.

 

If you’re picturing that typical dressing room you see in movies — a little rickety, with a worn wood floor, costumes hanging everywhere, cluttered makeup tables, modesty screen — this isn’t that. Those are real, by the way, but only in fairly old theaters. This is a modern theater. The dressing room is clean and carpeted. It would be brightly lit if the lights were on. There’s a shower. An alcove holds a couple of hastily hung mid-century men’s suits and one iconic black Hamlet costume. Alex’s street clothes are folded neatly on a shelf above the costumes. Accessories are laid out precisely on the long dressing table — including a wig block with a short blond hairpiece. A pile of dress shirts is draped over the back of one of the chairs — waiting to go to the cleaners. If you traded the suits for NSEA uniforms and replaced the wig with a Mak’Tar prosthetic, it could be Alex’s old dressing room at the studio.

The chairs are typical of dressing rooms — small, cheap, and hard — but there’s a lumpy vinyl love seat. I lie down on it and immediately fall asleep.

Not very smart, I know, but my body is done with my shenanigans.

I wake up when I feel Alex’s hand brush my cheek.

“Alex,” I say, brilliantly.

“Mary Sue,” he says in a hushed voice. “You’re really here.”

Yeah, so far the dialog is not up to our usual standards.

“Yes.” I go to rub my eyes, but stop when I remember that I’m wearing mascara.

Alex is kneeling on one knee in front of the sofa. I believe the word for his expression is “gobsmacked.”

I suspect he has about eighty questions and he’s trying to decide which one to ask.

“Are you alright? Did your life return to what it was?” Ah, he’s picked one.

“It went back, more or less. I never went out with Kevin a second time. I’m back in my old apartment with my old job, my old boyfriends, and my old cat. I have my memories back too. I remember all of my forays into the past. They seem real again.”

He presses his lips together, then smiles.

“How long have you been gone?”

“About fifteen hours.” I yawn. “Sorry. I’ve only slept for about two of them. And we were up late last…”

It dawns on me what I’m saying. My “last night” was over nine years ago.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says.

I take a good look at him. He’s wearing a plain dark grey suit, cut a little more generously than is currently the fashion. His hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, but still long enough to create Olivier’s wavy, combed-back style. There’s a bit of greying added to his temples. If his face has changed much, it’s hard to see under the heavy stage makeup. I fancy that the dent between his eyebrows is a bit deeper, but that could just be because the aforementioned eyebrows are drawn together in either worry or puzzlement, or possibly both.

I want so much to just lean forward and kiss him. A big chunk of my brain is going, “It’s Alex! Kiss him! It’s fun!” and another part is reminding me that I don’t have permission.

Anything could have happened in nine years.

He could be married and have eight kids.

Okay, I know he’s not married, and if he has any kids, it’s news to me.

But he could be seeing someone. Or he could just be uninterested after so long. Or he could not want to put himself in a position to miss me again. And I’m pretty sure he did miss me, at least sometimes. “Not yours,” I tell the chunk. “You don’t have permission.”

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

I squeak a little and nod.

He tastes like… Alex and lipstick and cigarettes. I wonder if the smoking’s just for the play? I don’t care. I do care. He should take better care of himself.

He feels amazing. I want to curl up on him and sleep for about eighteen hours.

He pulls back slightly.

“Why are you here?” he asks, but he doesn’t let me answer. He’s pressing his lips to mine and tasting the inside of my mouth as if he might remember my flavor and use it to verify that I’m actually who I appear to be.

I pull back this time. “You sent me a message,” I say. “You told me… will tell me to be here tonight.”

“I did what? When?”

I grab the knapsack and dig out the copy of _GQN_. “In 1997,” I say, and hand it to him.

He holds it away from his face and reads it quickly.

“Nora White? Rather clever of me, I must say.” He hands the zine back to me. “Well, it appears that the situation is dire. I can’t imagine any reason that I would mention this godawful melodrama otherwise.”

He scowls.

“Did you come back here just for me?” he asks.

“That wouldn’t be possible,” I say. “I can only fix time. If you do something on your own to fuck up your life, I can’t do anything about that. There’s a penalty to be paid for breaking time.” I think about the Cossack and the mind-boggling sadism of writers.

“But someone is breaking it, right?”

“Same as last time, and ‘Steve’ is a good enough name for him, since he’s still using it. I don’t think he knew the consequences, and if he did, he didn’t have anything to lose.”

I glance at the clock. Shit. “Listen, I want to sneak out of here with the crowd. I have reason to believe you’re being watched. Is there some kind of party tonight?”

“A few of the cast were going out to a pub near here. I declined.”

“Undecline,” I say, pulling the wig out of the knapsack. “You’re about to get lucky with a blonde tonight.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“We’re going to disappear for a bit. It would be useful, I think, if the last people to see you were under the impression that you went home with someone you met at a bar.”

“Wonderful,” he says. “I haven’t been on the pull in ages.”

“I’m sure you remember how.” I borrow a couple of hairpins and a wig cap from the dressing table and put my hair up. Alex helps me get any stray wisps tucked in, and I put on the wig.

“Does it look alright?” I ask, fluffing the curls a bit. I mostly want to know if it’s on straight.

“You’re by far the loveliest Delosian I’ve ever met.” He gives me a quick kiss.

“Not what I meant, but thanks. I’ll see you at the bar.”

I take out my wallet, figuring I can carry it like a clutch. I leave my knapsack with Alex. I don’t want it attracting attention.

Lucky for me, there’s still a fair number of people making their leisurely way out of the theater. In fact, more than a few of them are going in the direction of the bar. I join them.

It takes another twenty minutes for Alex to show up. His hair is damp — he must’ve taken a shower — and he’s wearing an olive v-neck sweater over a dark grey t-shirt and well-worn jeans. He arrives with a small group of people, one of whom is probably the woman who played Vivien Leigh. She’s cleaned off her stage makeup, but her hair is still styled like Leigh’s. She’s on his arm.

I watch them in the mirror while they settle at a table at the back. Alex gets up and comes to the bar. He stands next to my stool and orders a mudslide, a Long Island, and a Campari and soda.

He makes a little flirtatious eye contact.

I glance down at the bar, then back up at his face. I smile a little.

He smiles back, and turns to face me.

He checks out my rack — not a full-on stare, mind you — just a little look-see to let me know I’m sexy. He bends a little closer to me and says, “So, is there a plan?”

I look up at him coyly. “Not much of one. My brain is fried right now and I don’t have much info.”

He cocks his eyebrow as if asking me to elaborate.

I continue — “I know a place where we can lie low for awhile — try to get our bearings and formulate a real plan — but getting there may be a little tricky.”

“I suppose just taking my car isn’t what you had in mind?”

I fidget with my bar napkin. “I know the cloak-and-dagger seems a little much…”

“Don’t forget that you’re supposed to find me hilarious. American women only go home with men who make them laugh.”

That actually does get a giggle out of me, though I play it up a bit.

“See? I knew you wouldn’t forget how,” I say.

The bartender comes by with Alex’s cocktails. He picks up the mudslide and the Long Island. “I’ll be right back,” he says. I watch him as he takes the drinks back to the table and hands the Long Island to Vivien and the mudslide to the only other woman in the party. He chats for a second with one of the men before coming back to the bar.

He signals the bartender. “Whatever the lady’s having,” — he nods in my direction — “the next one’s on me.”

The bartender looks at me. “Alright?”

“Alright.” I push my empty glass toward him. He takes it and comes back with a full one. I clink it against Alex’s glass and take a sip.

“What is it?” asks Alex.

I shrug. “Cranberry juice and ginger ale.”

“So where is this place?”

“Lake Tahoe,” I say.

“Lake Tahoe?”

“My best friend and her girlfriend own a cabin there.”

“Does she know that you’re a time traveler?”

“No,” I say. “But she and Kami are in South Korea right now, and they’ll be there through New Year’s. I have blanket permission to use it. And I happen to know that their housesitter for the year fell through, which they won’t find out about until they get back.”

“New Year’s? How long do you think we’ll be in hiding?”

“I really have no idea,” I say. “I hope it’s only for a short while.”

I lean in a little and try to flip my hair, forgetting that it’s short at the moment. I settle for winding a curl around my finger.

“Look, Alex. I need you to be safe while I try to figure out what’s going on.”

“You said before that he can’t harm anyone in this time.”

“Not directly, not physically. But he was applying some kind of leverage to keep you in London. He may have something that can force you to go there as well.”

Alex nods. I don’t think I’ve convinced him entirely, but at least he’s willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe he’s just taking future Alex’s word for it.

“So, we just have to get to Lake Tahoe without using my car or leaving any kind of trail?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And unfortunately I’m almost out of money.”

“No you’re not,” says Alex.

“I’m not?”

“No. When Carson — you remember, from the Loevinger?”

I nod.

“When Carson told the committee that someone had already put down a 3,000 dollar deposit, Cece assumed it was me. She insisted on reimbursing me. I had no idea what to do with it, so we put it into a savings account in case you came back. Elliot’s and Letitia’s names are also on it, since we didn’t know whom you might contact.

I don’t need to ask why Frank’s name isn’t on it. He’ll clean up in a couple years, but until then, he could blow through that amount in a weekend, if you know what I mean.

“You’re a fucking genius, Alex. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure… and Elliot’s idea. However, there’s no checking account attached to it. In order to withdraw the money, one of us has to go to the bank in person.”

“If you _are_ being watched, that’s exactly the sort of the thing they’ll be looking for. Same goes for Elliot,” I say. “We need to contact Letitia. There’s a good chance that Steve doesn’t know that she’s in on this.”

“There’s a pay phone by the ladies’. I’d come with you, but this isn’t a dirty-shag-in-the-toilets sort of establishment.”

I laugh again. “Naughty!” I say, just a little louder than I need to. I get up and head over to the bathrooms.

Pay phones are 20 cents now, I see. I drop a couple of dimes in the slot and dial Frank’s number, hoping Letitia picks up.

“Ross residence.” I don’t recognize the voice, but why would a housekeeper be there at this time of night on a Sunday?

“Hello,” I say. “May I speak to Mrs. Ross, please? This is Ms. Zimmerman.”

“Mary Sue! This is Letitia. I pretend to be the maid when I don’t recognize the number.”

“Okay,” I say, laughing. “How are you?”

“Tired,” she says. “But I’m hanging in there. How are you?”

“Exhausted, but I’m hanging in there. How’s Frank?”

“He’s away right now. Less said, the better. But you didn’t call just to catch up.”

“No,” I admit. “Alex tells me there’s money. I need to get to it, but I think ‘Steve’ might be on the lookout for me. I believe he’s watching Elliot and Alex, but he has no reason to suspect that you know anything about my little situation.”

“Okay.”

“And I need a vehicle. Alex is still driving his Bonneville and I’m assuming that if Elliot has replaced the Gremlin, it’s with something equally quirky.”

“Oh lord,” says Letitia. “It’s a baby blue Volvo hatchback.”

“Of course it is,” I say, laughing.

“Okay. You need your money and a car… and a place to stay tonight?”

“I was planning on a motel tonight.”

“Alex is driving you?”

“Yeah.”

“Honey, just come here. It’s really hard to follow someone without them knowing it on these roads, and anyway that Bonneville is nearly invisible in the dark. In the morning, we’ll get your money and a rental in my name.”

“Alex shouldn’t go home tonight,” I say. “But I don’t want someone to see his car at your place.”

“There’s room in the garage. We’ll park it there.”

It’s as close to perfect as I’m going to get. If anyone asks, Alex went out to the bar with co-workers, picked up a super-hot blonde, and took her… to a motel, maybe? In the meantime, we’ll hole up at the guest house tonight and sneak away to Lake Tahoe in the morning.

“Thanks, Letitia.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, sweetie.”

Back in the barroom, Alex is sitting with the other actors again. One of the guys claps him on the shoulder and nods in my direction. Alex stands up and excuses himself. Another of the men says something I can’t hear and the others crack up. Neither Alex nor Vivien appears to find it funny. The look he gives the joker could freeze nitrogen. I can see his jaw clenching as he walks toward me.

He takes my hand.

“All set then?” he asks.

I do the coy smile again. “Yeah, all set.”

“Let’s go.” He turns and waves at the other actors, and we leave.

As we’re driving to Letitia’s, Alex is still quiet, although he’s not grinding his teeth anymore.

“What’s up?” I ask.

He sighs. “Nothing. Our subterfuge worked is all. I am the conquering hero and you are my rightful plunder.”

“And that bugs you.” You know, stating the obvious.

“Even if you were just someone I’d met in a bar who was gracious enough to spend the night with me, it’s still a vile way to look at it.”

“But I’m not.”

“But you’re not,” he agrees. “And, right or wrong, I’m that much more disgusted.”

I put my hand on the armrest, and he takes it.

“Sleep,” he says. “It’ll take a good half-hour to get to Frank and Letitia’s.”

“If it’s going to take that long, I probably don’t have a choice,” I say, my eyelids already leaden.

Alex squeezes my hand.

 

When I wake up, the sky is still dark, but it’s that dark that feels like early morning. I’m lying on my side wearing underpants and Alex’s grey t-shirt. My head’s on his shoulder. I stretch a little and feel his hand come up and stroke my hair.

He’s awake.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Nearly six,” he replies, his voice early-morning creaky.

“How long have you been awake?” I ask, burrowing closer to him.

“Mmm, about a half-hour, I think.” He kisses the top of my head.

“You just lay there letting me drool on your shoulder for half an hour?”

“Yes.”

I can feel more than hear him laughing.

“I need to pee,” I say.

“You remember where it is.”

I wriggle across my side of the bed until I find the edge and can put my feet on the floor. I head into the bathroom.

When we got to Frank and Letitia’s last night, Letitia took one look at me and said, “Bed. We can talk in the morning.” Then she unlocked the guest house for us. She wasn’t wrong. I was so exhausted I barely got my teeth brushed, and I was fumbling with the tie closure on the front of my duster. Alex finally took over, stripping me like a little kid. He spun me around and unhooked my bra. I felt his fingers brush the mark he’d left on my shoulder blade. Then he spun me back around and put his t-shirt on me. I was asleep before he joined me in the bed.

Now I’m back in the place I lived for eight months, and to me, it feels like I’ve been gone from my house for a week or two, only to find that someone has come in and removed everything. It’s disconcerting to the point of provoking a sense of anxiety, so I try not to look at too much of it. I can’t help seeing the empty bathroom counter, but I don’t open the shower curtain and look in there too. I do what I need to do and scurry back to bed.

I crawl back in and bury my face in the familiarity of Alex’s chest. He hasn’t really changed much — a few lines here and there, maybe — a little extra softness at his waist. He smells and sounds and — so far— tastes the same.

“Your turn,” I tell him.

“I can’t at the moment.” He shifts, and I feel his erection against my hip.

“I see. Well, that is a pickle.”

He laughs that nearly-silent laugh again.

“That, my dear, is a cock.” He crooks his finger under my chin and tilts my head back. “And like the rest of me, it has missed you.” He kisses me.

And I think about how much I love his kisses.

The first one, when I had to hold myself back from practically sucking his face off.

Or the second first one, when I chose to take what he was offering me.

Or the third first one, that he had requested.

I think of all the other kisses — the passionate ones, the tender ones, the ones that meant “sleep now” or “it’s alright” or “can we make love now?” or “I can’t resist you.”

The affectionate kisses.

The comforting kisses.

The kisses that meant some form of goodbye.

Alex’s arms tighten around me, bringing me back to this kiss and its sweet warmth.

And back to an awareness of his thick cock pressing my hip through the soft cotton of his boxers.

My fingers slip into his hair.

My other hand is trapped under me, but I manage to twist it around and lay my palm against Alex’s cock.

He pushes into my hand and rumbles his approval against my mouth.

He cups my breast in his hand and tweaks my nipple.

I groan.

What I wouldn’t give to have him suck it.

Another tweak.

“Al-ex.” I have to stop for breath in the middle of his name.

I want. I want.

I want to get him inside me, honestly.

That’s when I remember.

“Mmph!” I stop kissing him. “I don’t have any condoms.”

“So?” he says. “My hand’s not broke.” He tips me onto my back. “Nor is yours.” I’m laughing now. “I observe that both of our mouths are in perfect working order.” He kisses my neck.

“Okay! Okay! I get the point,” I say.

“Good.” He grabs the hem of the t-shirt and pulls it up to my chin.

Then he makes my wish come true.

With his mouth.

On my nipple.

 

By seven-thirty, we’re out of bed, showered, and dressed. Alex has to wear his clothes from the night before, but I had a second dress in my knapsack. I’m braiding my hair in order to better fit it under the wig when Letitia knocks at the back door of the guest house.

“Oh good, you’re up,” she says when I open the door. I mean, almost the entire back of the guest house is glass, so she could tell we were up from her living room, but okay. “Are you hungry? I’ve got breakfast back at the house.”

So we follow Letitia across the garden to the main house where she’s fixed eggs and toast and sausages. She’s even made a pot of tea.

“That dress looks like a nightie,” she says as we’re washing up after breakfast. “Let’s get you something that’s a little more ‘suburban mom.’”

We head into the closet.

It’s not nearly as fun as last time.

Letitia goes through some drawers, finally unearthing a pair of forest green twill pants and a long-sleeved, ivory, French terry top. I hate everything about this outfit, but Letitia’s right — I’ll look like a thousand other women visiting L.A. to do a little shopping or whatever. More importantly, I’ll look utterly unremarkable as we drive north.

Even rumpled, Alex looks way too hot for me now.

I put my wig back on and Letitia helps me style it a little. Then she grabs her biggest purse and we leave Alex at the house and go run our errands.

First we head to the bank. Letitia goes in by herself, while I pretend to be window shopping nearby. It takes about half an hour, but finally I see Letitia waving from the parking lot.

“I had to talk to a manager and get a letter saying the account was closed, and the money had to be counted a dozen separate times, but we’re all set.”

She opens the purse and shows me the cash, and holy shit, there’s two whole stacks and what looks like half of a third. The statement is rubber-banded to the short stack. I pull it out.

The account managed to accrue almost 2,600 dollars in nine years.

Well then!

I put the money and the statement back.

“I can’t thank you guys enough,” I say.

“It was Elliot’s idea,” says Letitia.

I make a mental note to thank him as soon as I think it’s safe to contact him.

Letitia picks a car rental place with a drop-off in Lake Tahoe. She has to put the dark grey Honda Accord on her credit card or surrender her first-born child, so I give her two hundred to cover it.

We head back to the ranch, Letitia in the rental and me following in Letitia’s car.

I fucking hate driving.

But we make it back without me suffering a nervous breakdown or putting a scratch on Letitia’s vehicle.

Once there, I stow the cash under the lining of the knapsack.

Letitia asks if we’re sure we don’t want to stay in the guest house. I get the feeling it’s a little lonely here with Frank off in rehab.

“I’d love to, Letitia,” I say. “But I really don’t want to get you into the middle of this, especially since I’m not even sure what this is yet.”

“I understand.” She looks at Alex. “You two take good care of each other, you hear? And let me know how things are going once in a while.”

“We will,” says Alex, giving her a light kiss on the cheek.

As soon as we’re out of the driveway, Alex says, “I need to get some things from home.”

“We can’t do that. If anybody’s watching anything, it’ll be your house.”

“I’ll park on the next block and cut cross-lots. There’s an alley between the two apartment buildings there that practically ends in my back yard.”

“I don’t like it,” I say.

“I appreciate that, but nonetheless, I need to get a few things.”

“Are they irreplaceable? Because we have enough money for clothes and things, and the place we’re going to has everything we’ll need and then some.”

“They are,” he says, so I drop it in favor sitting quietly and fretting.

My fret levels are at eleven when it takes him twenty minutes to “get a few things.”

To be fair, it is just a few things. Whatever it was he needed so badly fits inside a small gym bag. He’s also changed his shirt to a simple chambray button down. He carefully puts the gym bag in the back seat with my knapsack and gets behind the wheel.

“I had a message on my answering machine from my agent,” he says, as he backs the car out of the parking spot.

“Yes?”

“It seems that I am being considered for the role of Clym Yeobright.”

“The hell you say?”

“Watch the street as we go by.”

I look out the window as we pass Alex’s street. There’s a car parked there, not quite directly in front of his house. Someone’s in the car, but I can’t make them out. Nor can I see any kind of aura around them, but that may be because of the distance and the two layers of glass.

I swallow.

Alex touches my hand. “I didn’t let him see me.”

I let out a shaky breath and nod.

I feel a little better when we finally put L.A. behind us.

 

We get to Sacramento around four. I don’t want to be trying to find the hidden key at Mi-Na’s cabin after dark, and we need clothes anyway, so we get a room (where I ditch the wig), and then go hit a mall. Lake Tahoe is having an unseasonably warm October, but I have absolutely no idea when that will end or how long we’ll be there, so I buy layers — leggings in a couple different weights, short flouncy skirts, tank tops, long-sleeve T’s, and big sweaters. I get long underwear, regular underwear (including a few pairs that are truthfully a little _impractical_ , if you know what I mean) lots of socks and a decent pair of tall boots. My extremities get cold easily, so I buy some gloves and slippers and those thick headbands that cover your ears. I get a wool “swing” coat with a nylon lining. That way I can wear lots of layers under it and the nylon will keep out the wind. I’m not too worried though. I don’t intend to go doing winter sports and Tahoe doesn’t get that cold. I can get toiletries and things when we get groceries tomorrow, so there’s just one more thing.

“Condoms,” says Alex.

“Not what I was thinking of, but yes,” I say.

Or…

Maybe not?

So, right then and there, I just decide to have “the talk.”

“Listen, Alex…” I take a deep breath. “I get tested for HIV quarterly, although obviously, I haven’t been tested in… almost nine months, well and about a month before that, but I was negative, and I haven’t had sex with anyone but you since I started time-traveling, and I always use condoms every time, and my boyfriends always use condoms with their partners, except for one of them who does have unprotected sex with his live-in girlfriend, who is also negative, and I have an IUD which is more effective, actually, than a condom at preventing pregnancy, and um… You? I mean, if you want.”

I’ve pretty clearly never had “the talk” with anyone before. Easier to just always use a condom, to be honest.

“I was tested five months ago, about a month after my last relationship ended. The result was negative. I too, have always used condoms. However, in your case, I’d be delighted to dispense with them,” says Alex. And his eyes are crinkled at the corners in either amusement or pleasure — I can’t tell, but I grin at him anyway.

“Alright.”

That was decidedly unsexy, but weirdly… sweet.

And we’re just standing in the middle of a mall grinning stupidly at each other

“We need to hit a jewelry shop,” I tell him.

“Because?”

“Because the housesitters, David and Justine Sinclair, are married, and the neighbors know they’re coming to stay in the cabin.”

“I see,” he says. “Do you have a preference?”

“Not Zales,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“I think I saw a Kay on the second floor.”

We choose plain gold bands.

There’s a bad moment when the sales associate recognizes Alex.

“Aren’t you that guy who played the alien on that show… um…?”

“ _Galaxy Quest_?” asks Alex, his accent entirely gone.

Or I guess I should say, his accent entirely American.

“Yeah!” says the associate. “That’s the one.”

“I get that all the time,” says Alex, still sounding like the human embodiment of apple pie and baseball. “I’m not him, though.”

“Huh,” says the associate. “You look just like him.”

She asks us if we want anything engraved on the rings, but we decline. Someday, when the price of gold is not still ridiculously low, some couple with neither money nor sense will see these rings in a pawn shop, and they’ll buy them. I see no reason to make them remove my ersatz wedding date from the damn things.

She puts each ring into its own little velvet box and puts the boxes into a teeny-tiny shopping bag.

“That was impressive,” I say as we’re heading to the parking lot.

“The improvisation or the accent?” he asks.

“”The accent. The improvisation was also good, but it wasn’t really much of a challenge.

“Yes well, the classic British actor’s education at work,” he says. “I’ve got to use it somewhere.”

 

We get to the cabin shortly before noon. I locate the fake rock with the key inside, and let us in. If I was worried that this might not be Mi-Na and Kami’s cabin in this timeline, the framed 8x10 of them on the mantel would have convinced me.

That looks a little too like a clue to figuring out where I belong when I’m in my own time, I think. I grab the photo and go to stash it in a secretary that’s in the dining area, but the upper part is locked, and when I open the lower drawer, it turns out to be a roll out shelf with a printer. I’m elated. Where there is a printer, there is a computer nearby. Knowing Kami, it’s a Macintosh of some kind — and sure enough, there’s the little rainbow apple right on the printer — but I’m not completely ignorant of how to use a Mac, so that’s fine. I stick the photo behind the printer and shut the door.

We finish unloading the car — the clothes from yesterday, the groceries we got on the way through town this morning.

In the kitchen, on the counter, is a letter that Kami left for the real Sinclairs — where the thermostat is located, and the outlet for the fridge. There’s a list of emergency numbers. We’re welcome to use the bicycles and the skis and the kitchen equipment. Please call the service that maintains the house, and let them know we’re here. The service will continue to take care of the lawn and snow removal, but we’re responsible for the inside of the cabin. And so on and so forth.

The cabin is… “cozy” is the real estate term for it.

But hey, it’s bigger than either the guest house or my apartment.

The ground floor is a fat rectangle — about twenty feet by twenty-five. A loft extends to about the halfway point. Under the loft are a little galley kitchen and a bathroom with a big clawfoot tub. On the other side, where the ceiling extends up to the roof, is a big fireplace with a sofa and two side chairs and a little dining area with four well-upholstered Parsons chairs. In the middle of the loft is a large bed with smooth white linens and a periwinkle-blue duvet. There are two low bureaus under the eaves. There’s a closet built into the area under the stairs, and nearly the entire wall that abuts it is covered in bookshelves.

There’s also a little lean-to shed off the back door that holds two bicycles and some skis, an unfinished basement, and a big porch that wraps around from the front door and extends all the way the back. There are French doors off the living area leading to the porch. Some pieces of outdoor furniture are stacked under the broad eaves next to the door.

The porch is pretty and all, but since the cabin was built into the slope, the drop from it must be thirty or fifty feet. Possibly a hundred. It’s hard to judge when you never get close enough to the rail to really look.

Anyway, it’s small but very nicely appointed. This cabin was built in the seventies by some back-to-the-land types who actually knew what they were doing. Kami and Mi-Na bought it in 1987, and have since modernized it a bit. The place is a tasteful blend of Kami’s penchant for expensive luxuries and Mi-Na’s desire for understated comfort. The kitchen has a dishwasher and a fancy stove along with the original Douglas fir counters and the farmhouse sink. There’s a small washer/dryer combo in the basement. The furniture is a blend of brand-new modern pieces and genuine antiques. The tub has been refinished.

The porch is new and very sturdy, or so I’ve been told.

All-in-all, a snug little place in which to play house with Alex for the next… whatever.

Anyway, we get everything set up — get the fridge going and stocked. Get the rest of the groceries and our clothes put away.

We take the car to the rental place, stopping in town so that Alex can call Gwen. We’ve decided that it’s best that she believes that Alex has decided that he needs a rest and is therefore going incommunicado for awhile.

“She’ll be like a dog with a bone, otherwise,” says Alex. “She never passes up a chance to worry.”

The car people are actually pretty nice about shuttling us back to the cabin. Must be a slow day in the off-season.

By four, though, we’re both flopped on the couch with no intentions of ever moving again. The high altitude is taking its toll.

“What are our choices for delivery?” asks Alex.

“Judging by the three menus stuck to the fridge, I’d say pizza, pizza, or pizza and wings,” I say.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not yet. Thirsty though.”

“Alright,” he says. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to both drink a glass of water to counteract the effects of this pine desert. Then we’re going to go upstairs and nap for two hours.”

“You’re good at this.”

We both lie there, not moving.

“I take that back,” I say. “There’s a major flaw in your plan.”

“The part where we have to move?

“That’s the one.”

Eventually, we do manage to lever ourselves off the couch, and we do both drink some water, and we do haul ourselves up the stairs and into the bed. We sleep until nearly ten, though, and by then all the pizza places have stopped delivering.

We eat grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.

“Why did your friends hire housesitters, anyway?” asks Alex.

“They’d had a couple of break-ins,” I say. “This is a vacation place. They spend some time here each summer and mid-to-late winter, but for the last two years someone has broken into the place in the fall or early winter. Nothing was stolen, but they left a window broken each time and wildlife got in and tore stuff up. Both times, the service that takes care of the place found the mess and fixed of the window. I think, what with being all the way across the world this year, they just wanted to know that someone was onsite to be a deterrent. The housesitters never showed though.”

“Convenient for us.”

“Yeah. I would have found something else, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as nice.”

“It is scenic.”

“Is this your first time here?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Although Gwen’s always trying to get me to come.”

“How is she?”

“She’s doing… alright. She can’t find much work — like the rest of us. If it weren’t for appearances and residuals, we’d all be broke. She and Jason didn’t last long, unsurprisingly.”

And so on and so forth. We stay up another hour or so talking about everyone from the old days and what they’re doing now.

Gwen has a weekly segment on QVC dedicated mainly to _Galaxy Quest_ commemorative items — plates and pewter replicas — that sort of thing.

Fred has done voice work on a couple of short-lived cartoon series.

Tommy is a senior at Laguna College of Art and Design.

Jason shot a pilot last year, but it wasn’t picked up.

Ros is doing well. She’s writing for _The X Files_.

Elliot writes scripts for documentary TV series like _Nova_ and stuff. “He has a boyfriend, but I’m not supposed to know,” says Alex.

And Alex does whatever he can get — mostly live theater.

There’s no point in talking about what I’ve been up to. Alex has had a front row seat for all of it.

By midnight, we’re yawning again, so we head back up the stairs, change into our jammies — or t-shirts and underwear, which is apparently what’s going to pass for jammies around here — and go to bed.

We’ve got a busy day tomorrow — trying to figure out what our next move will be.

 

I wake up at about a quarter to four, thirsty as hell. I go downstairs to get a glass of water and to pee.

For once, Alex doesn’t wake up when I come back to bed. I try for half an hour to go back to sleep, but the worries keep piling up, and I’m thirsty again.

I finally give up and head back downstairs, grabbing the knapsack on my way.

I pour myself some apple cider and set the Palm in the cradle of its keyboard. I’m typing up my notes from the last couple of days when Alex comes downstairs. I glance at the clock — almost five.

“I woke up and you were gone,” he says, drowsy and just a touch petulant. He kisses my neck.

“I couldn’t sleep. I decided to type up my notes from the last few days — see if it gave me any inspiration,” I say. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“Just a little.” He takes a seat in one of the upholstered dining chairs. “Then I saw the light and heard the clicking. So is it working? Are you inspired?”

“Not so much,” I say. “And my battery’s running low.” I take the PDA off the keyboard and plug it into the charger.

“That’s a handy little thing,” he says. “It works like a computer?”

“It basically _is_ a computer. Normally, though, I’d sync it with my desktop and transfer these files. They’d be easier to work with that way, but there’s no hardware to make that happen yet.”

“Naturally.” He nods sagely.

I think about what I just said. “I’m sorry. I really do try to not be a walking science fiction trope.”

He laughs a little. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah,” I say. I mean, might as well get this over with. “Do you know what time your agent called?”

“He said it was about a quarter after nine. I assume that’s a.m. since he asked why I wasn’t up yet.”

“If I read that interview correctly, you definitely wanted to talk to me before you heard from your agent. But I don’t know why you didn’t want me to show up until the night before.”

“That part’s easy,” says Alex. “I wanted to finish the run of the show — professional honour you know.”

“Professional honor,” I say. “Of course. Why didn’t I see that?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion. You’re normally far more perceptive.”

I look at Alex — all sleep-rumpled and soft and happy. He’s pulled a third dining chair out and propped his feet on it. His hands are folded across his belly. I’m not looking forward to this part.

“You didn’t even want to talk to your agent until you had talked to me,” I say. “I think it’s safe to say that you wanted more than just a warning not to take the offer. I wouldn’t be here if that was all that was required. I could have accomplished that with five minutes of conversation. Somehow, he forced… will force… will have forced — English is not a language that covers time travel well…”

…especially when it’s not what you want to talk about.

I try again. “1997-you was being forced to stay in Britain. He can’t physically harm you or anyone else, and you know that. I can’t help but conclude that 1997-Steve was… blackmailing you.”

“That’s pretty much the conclusion I’ve come to, myself,” he says with surprising equanimity. “I’ve been trying to figure out what anyone could possibly hold over me that would cause me to stay in London once I’d realised that whatever you’re working on is involved.”

My brain chases that. “Maybe it wasn’t enough to keep you there, but also not something you cared to have exposed if you could avoid it. You had no way of knowing if it was better to defy Steve or go along with him, so you sent the message hoping that I’d show up if things were going wrong.”

“The logical conclusion being that if I were being induced to do something, you would stay away if it didn’t negatively impact… whatever outcome you’re working toward.” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t explain why I wanted you to meet me at that specific time and place.

“No, Mary Sue. I think your original conclusion is the correct one. I wanted you to prevent the whole mess from happening in the first place. After all, he can’t blackmail me if he can’t communicate with me.”

“You found a way to communicate with me despite the fact that you were in 1997 and I was… not,” I point out. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

We both sit, staring off into whatever place our individual trains of thought arrive from.

“Or…” I say. “Or — I’m supposed to prevent you from doing the questionable thing that he’s holding over you. There’s nothing saying that whatever action or condition he’s using for leverage exists right now, only that it exists by 1997. He’s a major shareholder in the studio that’s making _Return of the Native_. About half the roles you have after that would be with the same studio.”

“He lures me to England with the promise of work, somehow draws me into something compromising, then uses it against me when I try to leave?”

“If you can’t think of anything you’ve done that’s extortion-worthy up to this point in your life, that seems like the most likely explanation,” I say.

“We’re back to you thwarting his plan merely by talking to me for five minutes,” says Alex.

“Unless he has some kind of back-up plan, or whatever he’s using as leverage is a fabrication that you can’t refute, or he can put you in that hypothetical compromising position anywhere and then use that to get you out of the way.”

He puts his feet on the floor and leans forward, running the fingers of both hands through his hair. “I don’t suppose I’m allowed to know why I’m so bloody important.”

I’ve been protecting the Thermians, protecting Laliari, protecting Fred and the rest of the cast, and protecting Alex for months now. I’ve been in this focused mode for so long, that it throws me for a loop that he’d even ask that.

And, of course, there’s the fact that Alex is very bloody important to me, even without everything else that’s happening.

I just stare at him for a minute.

“Because you are,” I say.

Because I can’t quite bring myself to spout some bullshit about the goddamn Butterfly Effect.

“You’re extraordinary.”

“Mary Sue,” he says, quietly, patiently, as if he’s telling me some hard truth I’m too naive to see for myself. “I’m a has-been who can’t revive his career except through the agency of some preposterous villain.”

“You’re more than your career.”

“I’m not. And I never wanted to be.”

“You are,” I say. “Whether you want it or not.”

“Your faith in me is touching, but misplaced.”

“The hell it is.” I kind of tend to resent being told that I’m good-hearted, but wrong-headed. “You’re…”

Alex crosses his arms and looks at me with cold inquiry.

I stand up and start pacing.

And I’m thinking of how kind he’s been to me and his warmth and his wit and his patience and how he’s not placing a high enough value on that and how incredibly good he was to me when I was barely holding myself together…

… and the nine years that have passed since I last saw him.

I don’t think he’s fundamentally different. No matter how brittle and cynical he’s become, the deepest parts of him are still the same.

He’s still the person who offered to comfort me.

Still the person who asked me to sleep in his bed — to just be there and comfort him.

Still the person whose first question after nine years was, “Are you alright?”

“You’re my friend!” I say, like I’m accusing him of always drinking the last of the milk.

He doesn’t say anything.

I crouch beside his chair, and look into his eyes. There’s challenge there, but not the come-and-play sort of challenge I’m used to. This is a bigger test. He wants me to pass and he expects me to fail and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into, because I knew. I didn’t need Fred to remind me. I knew this was chipping away at his spirit. So I offer what I have, and that’s only words and what’s in my heart.

“The whole timeline where I was married — the abuse and the suffering — that’s all just a story to me now. It’s a cautionary tale about someone who’s not me. But not that week in 1983. The things that led up to that may not seem real to me anymore, but that week, and who I was, and all that pain and fear? I felt that. That’s real. And your kindness and empathy — those were real. You took my hand, you held me, you made love to me. And when I panicked, you were patient and gentle with me. You gave me just what I needed so that I could have some joy in my life when I was sure I’d forgotten how. And that’s something. That’s important and beautiful. That’s _you_ , Alex.

“You’re an amazing actor. I’ve seen everything you ever did on film in three different timelines now. Your artistry — the integrity of your craftsmanship — it still blows me away.

“But you _are_ more than that. You let me be your friend, and you’re mine.”

I watch him, willing that to be enough.

“Mary Sue.” His voice is so deep and quiet that I can barely hear it. He touches my face, brushes my cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Come here,” he says, and I stand up and let him pull me into his lap. I wrap my arms around his chest and tuck my head against his shoulder. I let him hold me like this until I’m nearly asleep.

“Are they all back?” he asks finally.

“They?”

“The memories of your forays into the past. Are they real to you again?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and he kisses the top of my head.

“Very good,” I agree, tipping my head back so that I can kiss him properly — lick that plump lower lip.

“Bloody brilliant, even,” he says, smiling for a second before he returns my kiss.

“Ooo, are you talking British?” I ask, not even bothering to take my mouth completely off his. “‘Cuz I gotta tell you, that does something for me.”

“Oh really?” he asks, coming up for air. “Well, in that case… Bob’s your uncle.”

“Damn, that’s hot,” I say, laughing.

“Oh, there’s more where that came from, as the actress said to the bishop.”

I’m laughing way too hard to kiss. Alex stands up, setting me on my feet and giving my ass a squeeze.

“You’re a lovely bit of crumpet, my dear, and I would be very much obliged if you took your sweet arse upstairs because I rather fancy a shag this fine morning.”

That was sudden.

But, when he puts it like that…

… how can I say no?

And when when he buries his fingers in my hair and cradles my head in one of those big hands and presses a warm and lingering kiss to my mouth…

… really, how can I say no?

“Come on,” I say, and I take his hand and lead him up the stairs.

The sun is coming up now, filling the cabin with light. I switch off the bedside lamp, and pull my t-shirt over my head. My panties are the next to go. Then I sit on the end of the bed as primly as one can while stark naked.

“Well?” I say. Alex is standing near the loft railing, watching me. “Take off your clothes, please.”

And I make it clear that by “please,” I mean “now.”

Alex complies. I lean back and watch him, making sure to let my appreciation of his body show on my face.

“Turn around, please.” I make a “twirl” gesture, and, smirking, he spins a slow circle.

And the view is nice. From the shaggy brown hair on his head to the light dusting of hair across his toes and all points in between — he is gorgeous.

“Alex,” I breathe. Then, a little louder, “Come here, please.”

It’s only five steps, but he takes them slowly, his walk sensuous — conscious of his charm. I’m sure he can’t miss the effect he’s having on me. My nipples are stiff and dark with want.

I spread my legs apart just enough for him to stand between them. He accepts the invitation, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his thickening cock. He grasps it, wrapping those strong fingers around it and stroking, bringing it to nearly its full length.

“Do you like what you see, Mary Sue?” he asks, drawing his foreskin back just enough to show me the rosy head.

I lick my lips and lean forward. He knows damn well that I like it.

I put my hands on his ass, pulling his cheeks apart and pushing them back together — kneading. I kiss and lick his left hip bone, the crease where his thigh meets his body, and across his belly, low enough that my lips brush the root of his cock. I hear his sharp gasp, feel his cock bound against my face. The skin of it is so hot and soft that I can’t resist taking him and rubbing that plush head against my cheek.

I press kisses along the shaft, and tiny, feathery little licks.

“Fuck. Mary Sue, please.”

“Please what?” I ask. “Please suck it?” I lick across the slit and the half-inch circle not covered by his foreskin.

He puts his hands on my head, burying his fingers in my hair — not pushing, just massaging, flexing and releasing like a kitten looking for comfort.

“Yes. God. Yes, please. Suck it.”

Well — you know.

I put my mouth to the end of his cock and let my tongue slip into the warm, snug space between the velvet head and silken foreskin.

I love knowing this about him — that he likes my tongue here, doing this. I want to learn new things of course, but right now the thrill I get from familiarity with Alex’s body is more than enough. I lose myself in the taste of him and the hard length of him in my hand as I stroke him and the sounds of his cries and curses.

But that’s not the main event this morning, so when I taste his bitter salt, I pull away and take my hand off his cock.

His breathing is ragged. I take his wrists and gently pull his hands from my hair.

“Kneel, please.” He doesn’t move. “Alex? Sweetheart, kneel for me, please.

Slowly, he lowers himself to his knees.

“That’s right,” I encourage him.

He throws his arms around my waist and kisses me, lips pressed hard to mine, his tongue licking inside my mouth. When he breaks away for air I say, “It’s a thrill, isn’t it? Tasting yourself in my mouth.”

“Yes,” he says, softly.

I nod, smiling indulgently. “I know.”

I kiss him again, more gently this time, waiting for his breathing to even out a bit.

He puts his hands on my breasts, covering them, pinching and rolling my nipples between his finger and thumb.

I lean into it and whimper. I love this, but I always sound like I’ve been wounded. And while I’ll admit this will certainly make me wet and receptive, they’re a little sore this morning.

I lean back on the bed and spread my legs further.

“Lick my quim, please. Get me nice and wet.”

And he does. He puts his thumbs on either side of my clit and splits me open and eats me like he’s licking the pulp from a fig.

I’m lying back on the bed now. It’s too much effort to hold myself up. My hands stroke Alex’s hair. My legs are shaking. My hips move like waves as I push my clit into Alex’s warm, sweet mouth.

And I wail as I come far sooner than I expected. Alex seems ready to see if I can repeat the performance, but I’m too sensitized now. I scoot myself up the bed, holding out the hand that was formerly stroking Alex’s hair.

He takes it and follows me up the bed.

We lie there, side-by-side, looking at each other. I reach out and stroke his cheek. He places his hand over mine. My hand isn’t very big. It looks almost like a child’s hand in his.

He kisses my palm. I kiss his mouth, lick my own tart-salt taste from his lips.

He pulls me close and tips me onto my back, rolling with me until he’s on top of me.

“Do you still want this?” he asks.

I nod. “Do you?”

“Dear god, yes.”

So I reach between us and guide his cock to my entrance.

He glides into me slowly, and when he’s sunk himself to the hilt, he touches his forehead to mine and sighs.

“Is it much different?” I ask.

“Yes.” He kisses me gently. “It’s… more. It’s you. I’m trying to convince myself that it shouldn’t make such a difference. But it does. Does it make a difference for you?”

I blush. “I… um… don’t miss the smell of latex, that’s for sure.”

“Not what I was expecting, and I’m not sure why that confession is worth blushing over.”

“You want to discuss this right this second?” I ask.

“No,” he says, smiling.

And then he begins to move.

I know the difference he’s talking about. It shouldn’t really feel closer. But it does. With so much skin touching, this little bit of slick contact shouldn’t be so significant. But it is. It’s more precisely because it was so much already.

I wrap my legs around him, and my arms around him. With one hand, I stroke his back from his freckled shoulder to the curve of his ass. With the other, I touch his face — and his mouth whenever we stop kissing just to watch each other. Alex is propped on his elbows, his hands cradling my face.

There’s no drive to completion, just this languid slide, just tender kisses and breath that keeps falling out of rhythm. And orgasms that roll softly through me and catch in little sobs in my throat.

And Alex’s voice — deep as an ocean and quiet like distant thunder. He says “beautiful” and “more” and “yes sweetheart, yes darling, yes.”

I’m arching as another orgasm hits, and he puts his hand under me, pulling me tight as he presses as far into my body as he can, and he comes, his breath caught and his eyes wide and watching mine.

He drops his head and we kiss — short little kisses while we catch our breath. I let my legs fall where they can and continue petting him. I’m cat-that-got-the-cream levels of peaceful and happy right now.

Alex starts to make movements like he might get off me, and I grab hold of his butt to stop him.

“I wouldn’t do that without first knowing what you’re going to put under me, unless you feel like changing the sheets,” I say.

He looks on either side of the bed. “Sorry,” he says. “There’s nothing.”

I sigh. “Alright then, count of three. One. Two. _Three_.” Alex pulls out, and I roll toward the closest edge of the bed and get up. Then I make my trickly way down the stairs.

The bathtub here may be an antique, but the fixtures are new and include a brass hand-held shower head that rests across the faucet taps. There’s also a teak bench that spans the tub from side-to-side — probably to make shaving easier. It works for after-sex washing-up too, although I have to place one foot up on the edge of the tub. At home, I’d just sit my ass on the edge of the tub, but I’m not trusting this free-standing, claw-footed monster to not tip over with my entire weight resting on one side.

Also, Alex’s semen smells nice. I wonder if there’s some arcane bio-chemistry at work. I wonder who the hell I’d ask. I mean, I always knew I was weird about smells, but this is just extra weird, right?

Whatever. I dry off, then grab a clean towel and head back upstairs.

Alex is making the bed with fresh sheets.

“Not fast enough, I’m afraid,” he says.

I hold up the towel. “Which is why this has a new home.” I put it on the lower shelf of the bedside table.

We finish making the bed together and get dressed.

While Alex takes the sheets to the washing machine in the basement, I hunt around the house for Mi-Na’s hidey-hole. Since the burglaries, I know she would have created a few spots to hide cash and valuables whenever she and Kami weren’t here.

Guess who taught her how to do that?

I check the under-stair closet, but everything there lines up the way it should. I take a peek at the toe kicks in the kitchen, but none are loose. I try the dressers next. Bingo. The two lowest drawers on one of the dressers have false bottoms — very hard to see under the spare blankets. In fact, one of them is already loaded with Kami’s good kitchen knives.

Yeah, I wouldn’t leave an entire set of Shun knives out to be ruined by the housesitters either. That’s okay. The cheap alternatives she’s stocked the kitchen with are the same brand I use every day at home.

I go grab the photo out of the secretary and stick it in the other drawer.

By the time Alex has figured out the washer and come back upstairs, I’ve located the key (It was with the knives.) and gotten the top part of the secretary unlocked. As I expected, it’s been modified to hold one of those itty-bitty all-in-one Macs. I boot it up.

“What’s that?” asks Alex.

“A Macintosh…” I look at the front of the computer. “…SE/30,” I say.

“A computer?” says Alex, raising an eybrow.

“This is the 20th century,” I say. “They probably have it here in case one of them has work. Mi-Na’s a lawyer and Kami does some kind of thing with organizing charity events.”

“A computer in a rustic holiday cabin doesn’t seem at all odd to you?”

“This isn’t all that rustic,” I say. “And I’m sure this computer has been replaced by a sexy new one at their regular house.” I find an organizer box full of floppy disks and start flipping through them. “Apparently, Mi-Na still likes to relax with the occasional text-adventure too.”

She also likes relaxing with copies of my fanfic, according to the labels on two of the floppies. I put them back in the organizer. I can’t do anything about them with Alex standing right there.

Anyway, the computer is working just fine, and it has a copy of WordPerfect should I, you know, want to use that. I power it back down, and close the secretary.

I turn to Alex and smile. “I don’t know about you, but I need caffeine and food,” I say.

We eat. I finish typing notes on the Palm. We try to figure out Steve’s plan some more, but get nowhere. And by dinnertime I’ve figured out why my nipples were so tender this morning.

Well, you can’t blame me for losing track. My last period was in 1979.

Alex offers to go into town and get tampons for me.

Oh, he’s a keeper, alright.

Too bad I can’t keep him.

I explain I have a menstrual cup and what that is. He is sweetly solicitous and offers to run me a warm bath after dinner. I accept, and ask him to join me. He accepts and we spend the evening watching our toes turn into prunes while Alex drinks a glass of wine, and I drink water.

He’s reclining against the back of the tub, and I’m sitting between his legs, reclining against him.

“You should grow a beard, I think.”

“I have done, in the past,” he says. “Any particular reason?”

“It would provide another layer of disguise.” And I’d find it really hot.

“Alright. I suppose if we’re to be stuck here for any length of time, it’ll be a bit warmer too.”

That settled, I finish my water and set the glass on the floor.

Thanks to Aunt Flo, I’ll most likely have a migraine tomorrow. It usually hits on the first full day of my period. Wine now will make it worse, and being hydrated may make it better. Add to that the fact that I’m still adjusting to the altitude, and I should be in for a rough time tomorrow.

I explain this to Alex.

“Can you take anything?” he asks.

“Not really. I already took all of my headache meds, and I can’t exactly walk into a pharmacy and get my prescription refilled in 1992. I’m honestly not sure that what I take is even available yet. Pot, sadly, doesn’t help. All I can do is take ibuprofen and wait it out. It usually fades as the sun goes down.”

He kisses my neck. His lips are cool from the wine. “You’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes, and I’m just drifting on a soft cloud made of warm water and Alex’s body.

Wine would have been superfluous anyway, I think.

“Why did you blush today?” asks Alex.

“Huh?”

“You said you didn’t like the smell of latex, and then you blushed.”

“Oh, that,” I say. “It’s intrusive. It’s… a sour note, you know? And I blushed because the next logical question is…”

“...What is it intruding on?”

“Right. It’s intruding on the smell of… bodies and sex. Which, as a dainty lady, I’m supposed to find disgusting.”

“Since when do you give a fuck what ladies are supposed to find disgusting?” he asks.

“I’m not a rock, Alex. I’m not impervious to the world I grew up in, and I can only jettison so much bullshit. And the same goes for you. I never know when I’ll come up against some random bit of your socialization, you know. And disgust is so visceral. I don’t do well with inspiring it no matter the reason.”

“So you have no problem unleashing these dainty little puffs on me the first time we had sex…” He tickles my right armpit. “…or inviting me to share a bath with you while you’re on your period, but admitting that you like the way we smell when we’re fucking is too much?”

I shrug. “I’m sorry. Were you expecting consistency?”

“I have come to expect a certain measure of it from you,” he says, laughing.

“Alright, alright. I often forget that my armpits are unusual for a female in this here modern Western society until it’s too late, and it’s almost never freaked anyone out, certainly not anyone who I’d gotten to _that_ point with, but saying I have ‘no problem’ isn’t entirely accurate. I just don’t have a _significant_ problem with it.

“I’d already explained what measures I was taking to not bleed on everything, and your brain hadn’t imploded over knowing that I menstruate — which it shouldn’t considering that you’re 37 and should have wrapped your head around the workings of uteri by now — so it seemed like a safe bet that you’d be cool about it.

“But smells are just one more gauntlet that women are supposed to navigate perfectly. Some are okay for us to like, some are expected for us to like, and some are expected for us to hate. And if you get it a little wrong, you’re just eccentric — although too much eccentricity of the wrong kind is bad too. If you get it very wrong, then you’re bad and a freak and therefore worthy of censure or worse.

“And there are thousands of these gauntlets — what we wear, what we eat, what hair we remove or don’t remove, what we put on our faces, what movies we like, what books we read, what music we listen to, what jobs we have, what pets we have, what drinks we drink, what we do in our spare time, our fucking facial expressions, _everything_ — it’s all fair game for judgment. And getting any of it wrong means that you deserve whatever punishment the world chooses to deal you.

“At the very least, it’s exhausting. At the most, it’s scary as hell.

“Not that I expect you’d ever do anything violent or cruel, but at this point, I don’t have much in the way of defenses against you. Just your unthinking revulsion would be enough to wound me.”

Alex has put his arms around me and laid his cheek against the top of my head.

“That took a turn,” I say. “Kind of a lot, huh?”

“A bit,” he says. “But I’d rather you weren’t afraid to tell me a lot.”

“You didn’t make this problem you know.”

“Neither did you.”

I mean, he’s got a point. And it just strikes me as funny, and I’m trying not to laugh, but I fail.

“What?” he asks.

“Just — I’ve been worried about your unexamined attitudes, and I’m not even thinking about my own. Like how I need to make sure you don’t suffer from the effects of my systemic oppression by blaming myself for my imperfect ability to rise above it.”

“That’s a knee-slapper, alright.”

I turn enough to kiss him. He tastes like acid and fruit and alcohol against my tongue.

“You’re under no obligation to tell me anything,” he says. “I just like knowing you.”

I think about those floppy disks with my fiction on them, but I’m not keen to ruin a pleasant evening.

I settle back against him.

I’ve told everyone I date for longer than a week that I write fanfiction, but I tell Alex something I’ve never told anyone.

“I’m sure by now you’re aware that I like sucking your cock,” I say.

“Mmmmmm.” I don’t need to look. I can hear the smug smile.

“Yeah, well. A fairly large part of that is the scent — it’s male and warm and salty and animal and… intimate, private. And, as you pointed out that first time, it gets me wet.”

He kisses the back of my neck.

“Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing in this world that smells as delightful as you removing a pair of drenched knickers,” he says.

“Nothing?”

“Alright,” he says. “Hazelnut cakes, but that’s it.”

“God, hazelnut cakes sound wonderful,” I say.

“I’ll chop the hazelnuts, if you’ll bake some.”

“No need. There’s a Cuisinart in the kitchen.”

“I can’t believe I’m being replaced by an appliance,” he says.

“Never,” I say, “just augmented a little.”

 

Well, I called it.

The next morning I wake up with one of the worst headaches I’ve ever had. Usually, I’m optimistic for the first half hour or so that it won’t be too bad. This morning, I wake up at seven and immediately start crying.

I can’t face this. I know exactly how bad it’s going to be.

I only get migraines once a month, mainly because I know my triggers and I avoid them. But I can’t avoid this one, not without being on hormonal birth control and that’s its own brand of misery.

Of course, right now I’d take that misery over this one, but it’s rarely this bad. If I’m stressed out, my headaches will usually be milder, so the eight months I spent working on _Galaxy Quest_ — with its constant, low-grade tension — were bearable enough that I was able to continue functioning.

But suddenly finding myself temporarily safe, well-fucked, and 6,000 feet higher than usual has hit me like a freight train.

The first thing is to sit up. If there’s any kind of sinus situation or muscle tension making this worse, sitting up will help. Also, I can’t swallow pills while lying down.

I was smart enough to leave the ibuprofen bottle and a glass of water on the bedside table.

The rattle of the pills wakes Alex.

“Jesus Christ,” he says softly. “What can I do?”

“Tea,” I whisper. “Strong, sweet, milky. And toast.”

I take four of the pills - 800 milligrams total, and try to twist around and prop the pillows behind my back without driving any spikes through my head. I fail, and Alex adjusts the pillows for me.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

He pats my thigh. “I’ll be right back,” he says and heads toward the stairs.

“I’m coming with you,” I say. “I’ve gotta pee.”

I’m wishing Mi-Na had bought something a little more luxurious. An _en suite_ would be nice right now.

Moving around just makes it worse. It’s best not to think, just concentrate on each step as I do it — empty my cup, rinse it, stick it back in, wash my hands.

The kettle is whistling as I come out of the bathroom.

“Do you need help up the stairs?” asks Alex.

“No,” I say. “It just hurts, is all.”

“I’ll be right up.”

I’m able to drink about half the tea and eat four bites of toast before I’m full and exhausted.

Alex is sitting on his side of the bed. I snuggle down and announce that I’m going to sleep now.

I take his hand.

It’s warm and strong. I hold onto it while I fall asleep.

I wake up about three hours later. I drink some more tea and eat some more toast. I go back to sleep. I don’t know where Alex is.

I wake up two hours later. I finish the toast and tea, and I take another 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen.

I need to pee again.

On my way to the bathroom, I see that Alex has set up the outdoor furniture on the porch and arranged a little eating area and a lounging about area out there. He’s sitting on the chaise, wearing headphones, and conducting something. I’m reminded of the first time I met him.

When I come out of the bathroom, he’s putting water in the kettle.

“I thought you’d like some more,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“Is it still bad?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“If you want to go back to bed, I’ll bring the tea to you as soon as it’s done.”

“And toast?”

“And toast,” he says.

On the way up, I grab a copy of _Jane Eyre_ from the bookshelf.

When Alex brings me more to eat, I ask him to read to me.

“I’m not sleepy yet, and I could use the distraction.”

“Alright,” he says, and he pulls open the drawer on his side of the bed. “Any particular passage?” he asks, putting on a pair of reading glasses.

“Fuck me, that’s cute,” I say.

“Glasses? Really?” He looks at me over the top of the frames.

“Glasses,” I say. “Really.”

“Do you want to hear Rochester propose to Jane in a _bona fide_ English accent or not?”

“Read then, but not too loud.”

I lie down and rest my cheek against Alex’s thigh.

And I listen to that gorgeous voice — “…it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.”

I’m asleep before Jane decides Rochester’s asking her to marry him for real.

I dream that Alex sets the book on his bedside table and goes back downstairs, trailing a string behind him as he goes. I follow it with my eyes. Sure enough, it disappears under my left breast.

When I wake up again, the headache is gone — replaced by a sudden wave of energy, which I use to make a pot of macaroni and cheese because I’ve only eaten two slices of toast all day and I’m ravenous.

“I’ve never seen it thickened with egg,” says Alex, perched on a stool on the other side of the kitchen island.

“I don’t have time for Béchamel,” I say. “Besides, I prefer it this way. Flour dilutes the flavor of the cheese too much. It’s trickier though. Too hot and the eggs will scramble and break the sauce.”

I pull the pot off the stove and spoon the contents into two large bowls. I sprinkle them both with toasted bread crumbs, and slide them across the counter toward the dining area.

“It’s a lovely evening, and I set the furniture out on the porch today,” says Alex, taking the bowls from the counter. “We could eat there.”

“Except I’m very afraid of heights,” I say.

“I see.” He sets the bowls on the table. “I feel a bit guilty, letting you cook when you’ve been sick all day.”

We sit down.

“It’s fine,” I say. “This always happens. Once the pain stops, I have an enormous appetite and lots of energy for an hour or two before I collapse again. Mac and cheese is my go-to.”

“It’s over, then?”

“It might hurt again tomorrow, but nothing like it did today. In fact, it rarely ever hurts like it did today. Thanks, by the way.”

Alex waves a hand. “I toasted bread and boiled water.”

“Yeah, well. Those tasks seem monumental when you’re in pain and can’t think, so they were much appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, looking at me with his eyes all crinkly.

I point my fork at my dinner. “This will not be improved by getting cold,” I say.

So we eat.

 

Over the next week we manage to settle into life at the cabin. Despite having a computer here, it’s obvious that Mi-Na and Kami use this place to get away from it all. There’s no TV is what I’m saying — just books, and music, and a handful of ancient text-adventures – which are basically books you can click on.

So we’re a bit bored, but also it’s somewhat idyllic — an extra-long honeymoon for our fake marriage. Except I feel guilty sometimes for enjoying this when I’m supposed to be solving this problem, but I have no clear way forward either.

Once again, I’m left wondering what will happen if I fail, but more than that — what if the only way to succeed is to hide Alex indefinitely? That won’t work. For one thing, Gath’gor would just target another cast member, like, say, Fred. That would be a disaster of epic proportions. So here I am, trying to figure out a way to definitively stop a plan of which I have only the sketchiest knowledge — again.

I spend a lot of time pacing and reading my notes under my breath whenever Alex is out of earshot. Hearing them out loud helps me think.

Alex and I have been over his interview with a fine-toothed comb, trying find any other information that future him might be trying to convey. I’m convinced that at least part of the interview is meant to be read by Steve as a message for me to come to London in 1997. We’re both convinced that future Alex was telling me to be at that theater in 1992.

“You call London ‘seductive,’ say you’ve ‘succumbed to its wiles,’” I point out as we lounge on the couch, discussing this again for the umpteenth time. “Is it a hint that you’ve committed some kind of sexual indiscretion?”

“Perhaps, but I can’t imagine anything I’ve done being all that scandalous. Since you were last here, there’ve been… five women with whom I’ve had any sort of relationship. I meet someone, usually at work since I don’t really socialize much. It lasts about four or five months. They get tired of me, and it ends. Before you and I… first got together, I had dated a woman for about six months. And before that, there were a couple of girls at uni.”

“So, you’re serial-monogamous, in practice anyway?” I’m getting the idea that he’d be just straight-up monogamous if he clicked with the right person and they clicked with him.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“And one-night-stands, that sort of thing?” I ask.

“A few, but only when I wasn’t seeing someone, and not in years, really. I wasn’t joking when I said I hadn’t pulled someone in ages. And truthfully, most of the women I’ve been with have not been terribly… adventurous.”

Honestly, I can’t imagine Alex being anything but sweet and respectful when it comes to sex. At least, I like to think I’d have noticed something by now if he weren’t. Not to mention that I’ve never heard even a hint of that sort of thing from the people we know.

“Maybe you got someone pregnant?” I ask.

“Not impossible, but highly unlikely. I am _extremely_ careful.” There’s something about the way he says it that makes me look more closely at him. “And were that to occur, I would acquiesce to whatever action the lady thought best.”

“Even marry her? Even if you didn’t want to?” I ask.

“Yes.”

There’s something big under that “yes.” And he hasn’t asked me not to chase it, and I’m a dumbass, so I ask, “Why?”

“Because my mother was forced to marry a man whose daily goal it was to make her miserable — because of me.”

Yeah, that’s big.

“Because of you?”

“She met a young man while she was in her final year at school. He was a couple of years older. As I understand it, they planned to marry, but he was called up to National Service. He ended up serving in South Korea, where he was killed. Her parents, fearing that — even if they could convince her to give me up — she would foolishly get herself into further embarrassing situations, paid a man who worked on their farm to marry her and claim me as his own. My paternal grandparents also wished to have no part of the affair made known and denied that their son had ever known my mother.”

“That’s not your fault,” I say, because I’m a genius.

“No, but that is the reason why I have been very careful not to impregnate anyone. And why it is even less likely that I wouldn’t take responsibility for my actions if I did.”

At this point my brain sees two paths to run down — listen to Alex talk about his mother, or try to figure out how this fits into the process of eliminating possible ways that Gath’gor could be blackmailing him.

My mouth decides on the easier path.

“But what if you impregnated someone and she didn’t want anyone to know? You’re as careful with other people’s privacy as you are with your own.” I think of all times that he’s gotten angry on my behalf because someone commented on my sex life.

He starts to say something, but I interrupt. “No, you’re right. If you’ve been as careful as you say, and I have every reason to believe you have, it’s not a likely enough scenario to pursue. However, the idea that you might be protecting someone else for some other reason is.”

“I have been as careful as I say. You’re the first woman whom I’ve taken at her word when she says that she’s using adequate birth control,” he says.

“I’m… honored,” I say, still a fucking genius. I know what he’s saying — I’m special, different. He feels something for me that he didn’t feel about Amber or the others since her.

And I feel the same way, but I don’t know how to say it. I could say I love him, but under the circumstances, that seems rather tragic, actually. I could say that I haven’t had any interest in anyone else since I started seeing him, but he’s not polyamorous, and sometimes monogamists tend to read that as you saying that they’re _the one_ , and you’ve been converted.

But he’s trusted me with all this… stuff… his mom and his… uhm semen. Jesus, this is nuts. I can’t think of anything to show him that I trust him too, so I just blurt out, “I write fanfiction. _Galaxy Quest_ … um… fanfiction.”

Well, that was wrong. Alex is just staring at me, perplexed maybe. Or unhappy somehow. Disappointed?

It’s hard to breathe. I can feel that sense of worthlessness from my third time trip surfacing. Oh shit. Is this how it’s going to be every time I fuck up from now on?

“I’m sorry,” I say, getting up. “I need air.”

And I just grab my fleecy jacket and walk out the front door.

But I can’t really go anywhere because I’m still wearing my slippers.

So I sit on the step and do what I said I was coming out here to do. I breathe. And it feels good. The air is cool and I pretend it’s clearing my head.

I stay long enough for Alex to come out and put a mug of tea in my hands.

“Is this a British thing or do you just know I like tea?” I ask.

He laughs softly as he sits next to me and puts his arm around me. “Does it matter?”

“No, not really.”

I sip the tea. It’s Constant Comment, with sugar but no milk.

“What happened?” he asks.

“My brain glitched is all. But I guess I’m capable of going into an even more catastrophic failure mode since that whole thing where my timeline was so messed up. Apparently, spending a week in that mind-set has rewired me a bit.”

“I’m still not following you, Mary Sue. Sometimes your mind jumps around so fast.”

“You trust me,” I say. “And I wanted to show that I trust you too, but there’s so much I can’t tell you. And my writing is something that I’ve been holding back, not because it’ll jeopardize the mission so much, although some of it could, but because I didn’t want you to react negatively. I know you’re irritated by the fans sometimes, and I’ve always believed in not talking about fanfiction with the creators and the actors, but it was starting to feel like I was ashamed, and I’m not — I’m just not sure how you’ll react.

“I overthink sometimes,” I say.

“No, really?”

I sip my tea. “Tell me more about your mother, please.”

He looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

“I want to know you,” I say.

He leans down and kisses me, then settles back against the step.

“She’s quiet, and she lets others walk all over her, but she has always tried to defend me, and when I was little she would tuck me in at night, and tell me that my real father was an angel now. She would say it was a secret, but it was true. She told me that I was smart and good and that if I worked hard I would make a life where I could be happy.”

“Did you believe her? About him being an angel?”

“No. If he were really an angel, he would have been protecting us.”

I nod and lean against him.

And I listen while he tells me about his mother, and how the terrible rat bastard she had married finally died in an industrial accident which may or may not have been caused by a man whose wife he had been sleeping with, and how his mother slowly emerged from that shadow and started to have her own life, and how she met Alex’s “Aunt” Giulia, and how they had a little house together with a huge garden full of herbs and vegetables and edible flowers.

And when he asks if he can read my fiction, I say yes and I tell him about the floppies.

“I’ll print them for you,” I say. “I need to go over the files anyway and make sure there’s nothing there that you shouldn’t see.”

“You need to remove any incriminating evidence?” he asks.

“I need to make sure that they aren’t dated or have anything that would help you place when they were written.”

“It occurs to me that you spend an awful lot of energy trying to keep me in the dark about your life and your mission.”

“If you were to find me — the me that belongs in this time — it wouldn’t just ruin everything I’m trying to do, it would ruin everything I have done. I have no idea if that could be fixed, but I don’t think it could. Promise me that even if someone were to walk up to you and offer to introduce us, you’d refuse. Don’t just promise that you won’t look for me, promise that you’ll actively _avoid_ me.”

“Is it possible for us to meet when you are in your own time someday?” he asks.

“It would be a long time from now,” I reply.

“I don’t care. Even if I’m 108 and all I can do is hold your hand and listen to you tell me the whole story of why you came into my life, I want that.”

It won’t be like that, of course. It will either be exponentially better or exponentially worse.

But when he asks me like that, how can I say no?

“Okay, I promise.”

“I promise too,” he says, smiling.

 

After about two and half weeks have gone by since we left L.A., I decide to call Elliot from a pay phone outside one of the casinos.

I get his machine.

Of course I do.

“Hey, Elliot,” I say. “Guess who? I’d rather not say, because I don’t know who might hear this. Anyway —”

“Hey. I’m here.”

“Elliot, it’s good to hear your voice.” And honestly? It really is.

“It’s good to hear yours,” says Elliot. Awwww.

“Surprising, I suppose, after all this time.”

“Not so much. Someone was looking for a mutual friend of ours. They called here two days ago.”

“Anyone I might know?” I ask.

“I doubt it, unless you hang out with agents now.”

“I see. Did they have any messages for our friend?”

“Just the usual agent stuff — got a job for him, blah, blah, blah. ‘Please have him call me.’ That sort of thing.”

Okay, I may not know much about Hollywood, but I’m positive that the number of actors whose agents call around to their client’s friends to beg them to take a role is vanishingly small.

You know, unless they’re being pressured to find said client.

“Awesome,” I say. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know I’m in town, so to speak.”

“It’s good to know. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know, okay?”

“I might do a little traveling,” I say, hoping he gets the hint.

“I can make some recommendations on places to stay once you know where you’re going,” he says.

Elliot’s a goddamn peach, let me tell you.

“Thanks, Elliot.”

Next I call Letitia.

She actually picks up.

“Ross residence,” she says.

“Hey, Letitia.”

“Hey!”

“I just wanted you to know we’re safe and doing fine,” I say.

“Oh honey — thanks for letting me know. I’ve been worried.”

“Sorry about that. I’m suffering from what I hope is an overabundance of caution,” I say.

We talk for about another minute. She says she hasn’t seen anything suspicious. I tell her I’ll keep in touch.

When I get back to the cabin, I tell Alex about his agent calling Elliot looking for him.

“Well, I suppose at least I’m in demand,” he says.

There is zero humor in his tone.

He glares at the floor for a moment, then turns and walks out onto the porch, where he stands gripping the railing and staring at the ground below.

I follow him as far as I’m able to bring myself to.

He glances back at me and shakes his head.

“No one can fault your courage, Mary Sue, but I came out here to be alone for a moment. Please go back in.”

“Alex…” I can’t help looking at the drop, wondering what he’s contemplating.

He huffs out a mirthless little laugh. “I assure you that I am far too stubborn for that. I simply want to think and not inflict my mood on you any more than I have to.”

I nod, even though he’s turned away from me again. “Alright,” I say, and I go back inside.

I was going to check the floppy disks that contain my writing this afternoon, but the computer is right by the French doors to the porch, so I grab the Palm and a book and head upstairs. It’s a couple of hours until dinnertime, and I stay in the loft until six, reading my notes softly, then _Tehanu_ silently. I hear Alex come back in around five.

I mean, if he wants to talk, it’s not like he can’t deduce my whereabouts.

By six though, I’m starving, and I can’t take much more of this giving him his space when he’s only ten feet away. I go down to the kitchen to start dinner.

Alex is already there, slicing cremini mushrooms. He has Kami’s cookbook open to a recipe for farfalle with mushrooms. It’s one of my favorites.

“I watched you make it last week,” he says. “It didn’t look too difficult.”

“It’s not,” I say. “Just a lot of prep. I’ll help you slice mushrooms if you’ll pass me a knife.” I sit in Alex’s usual spot on the dining side of the kitchen island. He passes me a colander full of cleaned and stemmed shiitakes. I start slicing.

I stay quiet.

Yes, it requires nearly superhuman effort, but I do it. I wait to see if he wants to talk.

He doesn’t.

When I finish the mushrooms, he hands me some shallots. I dutifully mince them. Then I go around the island and wash the juice from my hands.

We continue in this uneasy silence while I set the table and pour wine.

Alex finishes the pasta and sets two big bowls of it on the table.

“Talk to me,” says Alex. “Please.”

Well, that’s just me all over — I’m a terrible judge of when I should speak and when I shouldn’t.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything.” He smiles sort of sadly and encouragingly at the same time. “Tell me what you can about your childhood.”

“Well, umm… I grew up in Michigan. My parents aren’t particularly religious, but my mom thought we should go to church, so we did. That’s where I met Mi-Na. My dad’s a lot older than my mom. They got married because she was pregnant.” I twist my mouth at the parallel in our life stories. “She’s nice, friendly, not terribly empathetic, a hard worker. My dad is smart, well-read, curious, and prone to teasing. When I was growing up, my mom was paranoid about me getting pregnant. I was always fascinated by sex. She went off the deep end a few times over it, but mostly she was okay with having somehow birthed a weirdo despite being very normal herself. Now, of course, she wants to know when I’m going to produce some ‘grandbabies.’

“It’s very strange to not talk to her. I usually call her about once a week. She would probably not be happy to know that I’m frittering away more of my reproductive window.”

“And you don’t want children?” he asks.

“Maybe. If I found someone who I thought would be very hands-on. I can see it completely overwhelming me otherwise.”

One of my defunct memories surfaces. “You know, I had an IUD in my other life too. Kevin didn’t know. He thought I was just infertile.” I hate that Kevin still gets to pop into my head from time to time. For one thing, I can’t help but wonder who took my place as his victim.

“And what is your life like now?”

“Quiet,” I say. “Or it was before I started… this. I have a little attic apartment. I work as a baker. I have three… boyfriends, a handful of platonic friends, and a cat named Lola.”

“You mentioned more than one boyfriend before.”

How did we get this far without having this discussion?

Well, best get it over.

“I’m polyamorous. I’m not sure how common that term is right now.”

“I’ve heard it,” he says. “You have romantic relationships with more than one person at a time?”

“Basically.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“I tried exclusivity once, a long time ago,” I say. “I mentioned it… when I was here in ‘83.”

“The wretched college boyfriend?” he asks.

“Yeah. Him. I swore it off after that.”

“You decided to be polyamorous because of one bad relationship?”

Oh boy.

“Polyamorous is what I _am_ ,” I say. “It’s what I’ve always been. As soon as I learned the word, I just knew — there’s the thing that describes what I feel, what I know to be true.

“I’m free to practice any number of relationships any number of ways. I could continue to live alone with my cat and see one of my three boyfriends from time to time. I could meet someone who wants to form a triad. I could decide to be with one person exclusively or to be with no one at all. Those are all things I could _do_ , but I will always _be_ polyamorous.”

This is a terrible time to have this conversation, with Alex hurting, and me in unknown territory. I should have brought it up before, when things were calmer.

Buuuuut here we are.

This is exactly why I have a rule about bringing this up at the first hint that I might be getting into a romance — because if I’m going to get the label of “slut,” it’s better to do it before I get attached. But of course, I didn’t think this could ever really be a romance, did I?

“You’re being exclusive right now though?” he asks, carefully.

“Well, I haven’t exactly been able to have that conversation with the people I’m seeing back in my own time, but I haven’t seen them or anyone else but you since I started time-traveling.”

“May I ask that you not see anyone else while we’re… together?”

“Of course you can ask that.”

Here’s the thing. I really don’t want to see anyone else right now, and even if I did, I doubt I’d want to see them very much.

How would I feel a year from now? I don’t know.

Or what will happen when I get back to my own time?

Too many variables. If Alex still wanted me and still wanted an exclusive arrangement, could I do that? I suspect I could let Sean go without too much regret on either side. Gunner would be harder. I really am very fond of him, and I know he cares about me too, but on the other hand, we don’t have the kind of relationship that ties two lives together in that way.

But Trent?

There was a time when I thought I did have that kind of relationship with Trent, but things have been weird between us lately. We’ve grown so far apart.

Anyway, I shouldn’t make any promises about forever. Even if that turns out to be what I want, I can’t say something that could influence his decisions when I’m not here.

But a time other than this one is not what he’s asking for, and I can give him right now.

Or whatever this is.

“I promise to be just with you while I’m time traveling,” I say.

I get up to clear the table.

“Leave it,” says Alex. “I’ll do the washing up. You promised to print me one of your stories.”

So I boot up the Mac and load a copy of “Roses are Red, Princesses are Purple” — one of my funnier (if I do say so myself) Tawny Madison stories where she’s forced to impersonate Princess T’Prang’s sister in order to thwart an assassination attempt on Her Highness.

I fall asleep while Alex is still reading it — sitting on his side of the bed with those reading glasses on.

When I get back to bed after my three o’clock trip to the bathroom, Alex grumbles about how cold I am. It’s definitely getting chilly enough at night to need a robe when I go downstairs.

On the other hand, it’s delicious to crawl back into that warm bed and snuggle up to a warm Alex, who complains, but in that low sexy growl while wrapping himself around me.

Nine times out of ten, we stay awake and talk or make love.

Or both.

“The story was delightful, by the way,” he says. “I don’t know why you were reluctant to show it to me.”

“There’s sort of this rule in the fanfic community that you don’t foist your work on the creators…”

“You could hardly be said to be foisting when I had to drag it out of you.”

“Mmm.” I nuzzle his pectoral muscle, hoping to distract him.

“Not to mention that you usually require very little encouragement to break societal norms, at least in private,” he points out.

“Hell, sometimes I don’t require any encouragement at all,” I say, biting my lower lip and giving him my most lascivious stare.

“Oh, is this how it’s going to be?” He puts his arms around me and kisses me deep and slow. He pulls my t-shirt up and over my head. Then, while my hands are tangled in the shirt, he flips me onto my back and pins my arms above my head. “You will answer my questions, hussy, or suffer the consequences.”

Well dang. I hope my “punishment” isn’t too severe.

My expression is clearly undismayed.

“Yeah?” I say. “And what’re you gonna do if I don’t wanna?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing?”

He lowers his head until his mouth is an inch from my nipple. “Nothing,” he says again, and I can feel his breath ghost across my breast. “Not. A. Damn. Thing.”

My nipple tightens as if it can bridge the distance with erectile tissue alone.

“Alex!” I whine. “That’s not fair!”

“My dear lady, whatever gave you the impression that I’m fair?”

Oh, and it’s Talk Like a Villain in a Melodrama Day, I see.

“Now, what’s _really_ holding you back?” His lip just grazes my nipple.

“Ah! You may not like it,” I say, twisting just a bit, trying to get closer to his mouth.

“Your answer?” He touches me with the tip of his tongue.

“My work.”

He takes my nipple into his mouth and sucks it perfectly — flicking his tongue against it and pulling just hard enough to smart. He kisses my neck the same way, then he lavishes attention on my mouth.

He pushes my hands together so that he can hold my wrists in one of his hands, and I, you know, let him.

He reaches with his other hand into the bedside drawer and brings out my vibrator — a simple, hard plastic, swirly purple bullet vibe. He turns it on and it buzzes enthusiastically as he skims it down my stomach and into my panties. He presses the tip of it into my quim, and smears the wetness up to my clit. He gets it good and slick, then just holds it lightly against my mound, refusing to apply the pressure I need to get off.

He stops kissing me and lays his head on my shoulder, his mouth inches from my ear, and I know what’s coming next.

That low rumbling murmur — it’s the aural equivalent of slipping down over a fat cock. “Why wouldn’t I like it? You’re very good.”

I’ve gotten lots of compliments on my writing over the years, but this is the first one that’s very nearly made me come.

“Alex!” I try to wriggle closer to the vibrator but he’s having none of it. “Because I write Lazarus in a gay relationship with Chen, okay?”

Alex slips the toy between my labia and my clit, and strokes me with it until I orgasm, jerking away from him and the suddenly-too-strong sensations.

He turns off the vibe and chucks it on the bed, then he releases my hands and pulls me close, holding me and petting my back while I shiver through the aftershocks.

“I’ve never minded it when people write stories where Lazarus is gay,” he says after I’ve had a bit of time to enjoy the glow. “I preferred to keep his sexuality a mystery when I played him. I always thought of it as alien to the human experience, actually. So — straight, gay, or anything in-between or nothing at all — they’re all possible. I’ve never quite figured out the allure of pairing him with Taggart. But then, I could never quite understand why so many insisted that he should be in a romance at all.”

“I think a lot of us identify with him,” I say. “We’re outsiders. Quite often we can’t even think like normal people, and people pick up on that and reject us. So, if Lazarus can be loved, it logically follows that so can we.

“They like to pair him with Taggart because Taggart is everything society deems awesome — smart, personable, successful. He’s the alpha male love interest in every romance ever. He represents acceptance into the ‘in’ group.”

“But isn’t his friendship be enough to accomplish that?” asks Alex.

“I think so, for most people. But for a big chunk of fandom, the protagonist can never settle for less than the one true love that none can put asunder and that lasts forever.”

“But you chose Chen for Lazarus,” he points out.

“I think the idea of two weirdos carving out a place for themselves is more appealing to me than finally being accepted by the paragon of the mainstream. And all of this is just speculation. All I can say for sure is that the Taggart/Lazarus pairing really speaks to a lot of people, but Chen/Lazarus really speaks to me.”

We’re quiet for a little while, and I’m beginning to wonder if Alex has fallen asleep, when he speaks again.

“You called it your ‘work,’” he says.

“Well, it is work. I put a lot of effort into it.”

“And what do you get out of it when so few will ever see it?”

“What do you get out of acting?” I ask. “A bigger audience is a bigger thrill, but the important thing is in the making and the connection — even with only a few people… Or maybe I’m just a chicken.”

“Now you’ve lost me again,” says Alex.

“I wrote an original novel, but it just sits in a drawer. I don’t know the first thing about getting published. I’m a known quantity in fandom. I wonder if I’d rather have that small audience that I’ve already gained rather than try for a bigger one.”

“You know, I was thinking that you were smart to quit acting. I didn’t realize you’d just switched brands of suffering.”

“Really? Did you miss the part where I told you about my garret?” I ask.

“I thought garrets were for painters,” he says.

I shake my head. “You’re thinking of absinthe addiction.”

He pulls me closer and kisses me.

“My mistake,” he murmurs.

Dammit. He knows what that does to me.

 

Alex’s birthday is on the 28th. I bake him an orange and almond cake and we go to a showing of _The Philadelphia Story_ — which, you know, they would have made an amazing triad, just saying. Hallowe’en passes and Thanksgiving is right around the corner and I still can’t think a way out of this. Elliot and I have set up a system where he writes me (as Justine Sinclair) once a week at Mi-Na’s P.O. Box (the key was with the knives, and I knew the number from writing her myself) and drops the letter at his post office directly. I write him back at his P.O. Box. He tells me that both his house and Alex’s are being watched intermittently. The agent has stopped calling though. And, as far as he can tell, no one’s watching Frank and Letitia’s.

In a way, I’m grateful. It means I’m not just imagining the whole thing.

At least I’m justified in making Alex miserable.

Not that he’s miserable all the time. In fact, most of the time I’d say we’re enjoying our enforced and extended vacation. I’ve been teaching him how to cook, and he’s been teaching me to waltz. I’ve never done any dancing beyond the Hold On and Sway kind.

He’s a much better student than I am.

We talk (of course) and we fuck (also of course).

On Fridays we put on music and clean the cabin. I’ve been here long enough now to have made a list of chores on the PDA.

We read. He’s gone through most of my oeuvre with the exception of the stuff that he might have encountered. He’s promised not to make deductions about me, but I’m afraid that “While All the World’s Asleep” or “All You Have to do is Fall in Love” might have stuck in his memory. Besides, I’m not keen to subject him to my Supertramp era. I also haven’t shown him “All the Lonely Things My Hands Have Done.” He’s read my stuff where Chen/Lazarus is in the background, but while there’s no actual sex in “All the Lonely Things,” the slash is definitely front and center. And it’s a little more… revealing than anything I’d written up until then. Much of my work took a turn toward the personal after that, but Mi-Na doesn’t have those stories yet.

Anyway, I’ve been using lack of paper as an excuse — Alex has a baby boomer’s distaste of computers. I’d forgotten just how common his attitude was in 1992. Hell, a lot of Gen X were just as bad.

Anyway, I’m in town on a mission for copy paper and Elliot’s weekly missive.

I stop at the post office first and drop my own note into the slot. It doesn’t say much — just that we’re still safe and well. Elliot’s letter has no real news either unfortunately. I make a face before tucking the letter into my knapsack. Alex’s black moods usually come on after Elliot’s letters full of non-progress.

I stop at the one computer store in town and pick up a ream of paper. It’s twice as expensive here as it is at the office supply place out of town, but I don’t want to spend two hours on public transportation to go out there and back. I had to do that two weeks ago to replace the ink cartridge.

I need to get a few groceries too, but I stop at the resale shop first to see if they’ve gotten any new books. At a dime for paperbacks and a quarter for hardcovers, it’s a better bargain than the used bookstore, even if the selection is far more hit-or-miss. It’s gotten to the point where the staff know my name — or Mrs. Sinclair’s name, anyway.

Another aspect of this open-ended mission is not knowing how far I’ll have to stretch that 5,000 dollars.

Which is why I almost don’t buy the nightgown.

It’s on a table at the back of the shop reserved for items that are in bad shape, but which are made of enough nice fabric that someone might want to buy them for a sewing project. It can’t have been there long. Four or five yards of black silk charmeuse is worth at least a hundred dollars, and this has barely been cut. It’s a chiton-style gown that must have once had some sort of decorative element where it fastened at the shoulders. The sides of the gown are open except for an inch or so at the high waist where a casing once held a drawstring or a piece of elastic. Unless I miss my guess, there was a decorative belt that could be worn over it, probably matching panties too. The top part has been lined with the same charmeuse. I’ll bet it would feel like absolute heaven against my breasts. The store wants 35 bucks for it.

It’s utterly frivolous, but it reminds me of the dress Letitia lent me for my date with Alex.

And I could pretty easily replace the decorations.

For a small further outlay of my very limited funds.

What can I say? People with ADD are not known for their incredible ability to resist impulses.

There’s nothing good in the book section today, but I do find _Kick_ by INXS in the albums.

I backtrack almost all the way to the post office, where there’s a little craft and sewing shop. I pick up a tube of sliver bugle beads and a packet of beading needles. I have no idea how I’m going to replace the belt, but I can get to work on the shoulders at any rate.

Then I remember that it’s very unlikely that I have enough thread in my itty-bitty little sewing kit. I also don’t have scissors or the kind of good dressmaker’s pins that won’t snag charmeuse. Okay, my needles are top-quality and fine enough, and I can baste any seams I need to sew, but I’m not going to get away with not buying scissors. This gown was made for someone at least half a foot taller than me.

Okay, _fine_. I get a pair of orange-handled shears and a spool of silk thread. By the time I’m done, my little project has set me back 55 dollars.

At the grocery store, I buy cream, mushrooms, thyme, and wild rice for soup later in the week (The crockpot is already full of a bastardized version of cassoulet for tonight.), and a half-gallon of milk for tea. I check the liquor section for discounted craft beers and find a 22-ounce Chimay. We’ve stocked the cabin pretty thoroughly against the distinct possibility of getting snowed in, but when it’s nice out, I like to get some fresh stuff. And it’s supposed to snow a lot over the next few days. I decide to get a dozen eggs too.

I get home just after the snow starts. Alex kisses me and takes the groceries off the high-sided child’s sled I use to haul home purchases. I try to do most of the trips to town myself rather than risk Alex being recognized, although between the beard he’s grown and the spot-on, possibly-from-somewhere-around-Minnesota accent he’s able to put on, there’s pretty slim chance of that.

“I was about five minutes from coming out after you,” he says, taking my fogged-up glasses from me.

“Sorry,” I say, kicking off my boots. “I stopped to look for books.”

“Did you find any?” he asks.

“No.” I’ve already decided not to tell him about the nightie until I’ve finished restoring it. “I found a copy of _Kick_ though.” I pull the album out of my shopping bag and hand it to him.

“So you have,” he says, utterly unimpressed because he’s a total music snob who only listens to classical or jazz. Swing music with lyrics is about as high-spirited as he’s willing to get, although I’ve caught him humming “All Through the Night” a few times.

“Yeah, well, it’s one of my favorites,” I say on my way up the stairs. I put the nightie and the sewing supplies in one of my bureau drawers, and change my damp leggings and mini skirt for dry leggings and one of those long Indian skirts that are actually underwear.

Thank you, India. I am in love with your fancy slips.

I’m tying the drawstring when I hear “Guns in the Sky” playing quietly. I smile and stick my feet into my slippers.

When I get back downstairs, Alex has already put away one bag of the groceries. I start to help with the other two.

“Go print,” he says, shooing me away. The paper is already sitting in the dining room. He has a point. The original Stylewriter is dead fucking slow.

Although maybe all printers were this bad in 1992, and I’d just successfully blocked it from my mind.

I boot up the Mac.

“Did you get your letter from Elliot?” asks Alex.

Fuck.

“Yeah, he may have found a place we can go after New Year’s.” Mi-Na and Kami will get home from South Korea in time for Christmas. They’ll spend most of January and February here.

Alex’s jaw clenches, but all he says is, “Good.”

I turn back to the computer and stick the floppy into the drive.

Alex remains quiet as I start the document printing, but he doesn’t go out on the porch, which is what he usually does when he wants to be alone.

Of course, the snow is _really_ coming down now.

“Do you need some time to yourself?” I ask because I am a genius who might actually be teachable after all.

“You were gone for four hours,” he says as he pulls one of the dining chairs over to where I’m sitting. He places it next to mine but facing toward me. He sits in it, slouching, with his legs straight out and strokes my cheek. “I’ve already got my moping in for the day.”

“Very efficient of you,” I say.

“I just feel useless. I can’t really help you and I can’t look for work. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t working or trying to.”

I nod. I mean, I figured it was something like that.

He says, “It’s a point of pride, I guess. I may be a failure, but it’s not for lack of trying.”

“Alex, you’re not —” He places a fingertip against my mouth.

“And then I think, ‘You have her here. How many times did you dream about her soft warm body next to yours? And her voice? And her laughter? And her sweet little hands? And she’s here. And when she’s gone, you’ll regret every second you spent lamenting a career that no longer exists.’”

“Don’t —”

“Shhh. Let me feel what an idiot I am for a little while. I assure you, I’ll be back to my old moody self soon enough.”

Because this is, you know, not moody.

“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Have it your way.” I lean forward and kiss him and bury my fingertips in his beard.

The printer beeps at me. It wants more paper because if I give it more than five sheets at a time, it freaks out and tries to pull all of them in at once.

“This one’s long,” says Alex.

“It’s about three times as long as the others,” I say. “I didn’t realize it when I was writing it. It just wanted to be a slower story. It’s certainly more… contemplative.”

“And this is the last one your friend has?”

“She has a couple others, but they’re too… easy to pin down to a certain time and place,” I say. “Or they’re my very earliest ones and they’re complete trash.”

“How bad could they be?” he asks.

“Would you like me seeing your grade school Christmas pageant?”

“Point taken,” he says.

To fill the time while I’m stuck sitting here with the printer, I grab the knapsack and clean it out. Now that I’m carrying it like a purse, it tends to accumulate crap all day. But a knapsack in 1992 in Lake Tahoe doesn’t look as out-of-place as it did in 1979 on a television lot in L.A., and I don’t need to keep it hidden from Alex.

I pull out Elliot’s letter. I’ll type it into the Palm later, then burn the original. I take out the Palm too and turn it on to see if it needs charging. I transcribed Alex’s interview weeks ago, and that’s what comes up when I open the documents program.

“Is that the interview?” asks Alex.

“Yeah,” I say. “I put it in here hoping that typing it out might help me find something. It’s just so strangely worded. I poke at it with the stylus, scrolling about halfway down. Like why is ‘are you coming back to the U.S.?’ an excellent question? I can’t help but think that there’s more messages in it.”

“And the highlighting?”

“I wanted to make it clearer which things you had said.”

The printer beeps again, and I add more paper.

“What I don’t understand is why Steve would wish to confront you in 1997,” says Alex.

“Remember that I told you that there are consequences to breaking time? Consequences that he may not aware of?”

“Yes.”

“One of them is that you become stuck. Instead of returning to your own time in a shower of sparkles, you have to get back the old-fashioned way — one day at a time. I think Steve’s under the impression that he’s not returning home because I keep thwarting him. He’s come up with a plan and put it in motion, but nothing’s happening. He probably thinks I have some counterplan that’s causing him to fail. He doesn’t know what it is, so he wants to confront me, and eliminate my involvement.”

“By using me as bait,” says Alex.

“Naturally,” I say. “Lots of people know we’re involved — Elliot, Ros, Letitia, Frank, Frank’s neighbor. Steve knows that Elliot’s a friend too, but he already has something he can hold over you, so he uses that.” I’m fudging a little bit, of course, but I don’t want Alex to know that Elliot’s direct involvement has already ended while Alex still has a way to go.

“And so we’ve come back around to not knowing what that is.”

“Yup.” I scroll back up to the top of the document.

Maybe it’s the highlighting. Maybe it’s because the lines go by so fast. But I see something I haven’t seen before.

I snatch up a piece of paper and a pencil from the desk. Starting from the top of the interview I jot down the first letter of each thing Alex says.

T A M B E R J O I E T

“I’ll bet you were fucking awesome at the alphabet game,” I say.

“A fucking champion,” he replies, as he sees what I’ve written.

So the alphabet game is an improv game — one that most actors have played at one time or another. Two people make up dialog, but the first letter of each line must begin with the next letter in the alphabet.

Like so —

“I’d like to know where you’re headed.”

“Just to the other side of the lake.”

“Klondike Lake?”

“Lord no.”

“Miller Lake?”

“Not on your life.”

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

It’s usually more interesting to watch as the players try to outdo each other for weirdness or cutting off the opportunities for the other player to transition smoothly.

Some people can do it as easy as breathing. Some people can even spell out a secret message in a puff piece interview for a fanzine.

“Amber Joie,” I say. “Any idea why?”

“Not the faintest,” says Alex. “She moved to L.A. in 1988. We saw each other a few times, and we have lunch now and again.”

“ _Saw_ each other?” I say.

“We flirted briefly with the possibility of getting back together, but decided against it.”

“How private was this flirtation?”

“Are you asking me if we had sex?” asks Alex.

“No, not really. I’m asking if you went on dates in public where you could be seen or photographed.”

“Ah. Would Steve have reason to believe that she and I are close?”

“Well?” I ask. “Would he?”

“He might. Amber tends to be fond of whatever the newest flavor is. We end up at the sort of trendy restaurant where people go to show off more often than not. If the celebrity gossip is boring enough that day, we sometimes get mentioned — for her sake, of course, not mine.”

“Okay, so we can assume that Steve thinks the two of you are close,” I say, ignoring the little dose of self-pity for the moment. “The question is, are you? At least close enough that you’d stay in Britain to protect her?”

“I am fond of her. Unless something very important was at stake, I’d likely do what I could to shield her from harm.”

“How does this sound,” I say. “You go to Merry Olde England to do _Return of the Native_ , you get more parts there, you stay until there’s some reason to go back to L.A. — the offers dry up, you get an offer from someone in Hollywood, you miss Gwen or Elliot or Jason —” Alex makes a face. “— and you try to leave. That’s when you find out that someone’s been keeping you there, and that someone knows something that could hurt your good friend, Amber Joie.

“You recognize the name of my arch-nemesis, Steve Gagorian, as one of the persons involved in your exile, and you decide to contact me. You suspect that Steve wants you to do precisely that, to get me to come to you in 1997, so you give me a different date — one where I could possibly figure out the plan and stop it before it gets off the ground. You give me enough info to get me to the theater in 1992, and leave me a hint that points toward Amber’s involvement.”

“It’s the most plausible course of action for a man who’s involved with time-travelers and blackmailers,” says Alex. “Although I notice that there’s a hole or two.”

“Yeah, well, the important one is — what does Amber do that leaves her open to threats of exposure? To fill that, we’re going to need more information.”

The printer beeps again. I give it five more sheets.

“I wish I had it for you,” says Alex. “I can’t imagine her doing anything like that. She really is an honest and kind person.”

I touch his hand. “I’m sure she is a good person, Alex. She’s won your affection, and you don’t just give that out willy-nilly. If at all possible, I’d like to protect you both.”

Alex looks at me for a moment, that dent between his eyebrows so deep that I’m wondering if it will open a portal to another dimension.

“So now what?” he asks.

“Now I write Elliot and see if he can dig something up. I can’t mail him anything, though, until this snow lets up.”

 

We’re snowed in for four days.

Four long days with Alex’s outlook getting gloomier and gloomier. It’s obvious that having me hanging around being anxious over his well-being just makes it worse, because then he’s also “inflicting” himself on me.

So I stick mostly to the loft, working on the nightgown from hell.

My mom was a professional seamstress, and charmeuse was one fabric she hated passionately. I'm swiftly coming around to her point of view. Fussy, slippery damn stuff. If you don’t know what charmeuse is, it’s basically a satin fabric — usually made from silk or very fine polyester fibers. It has weight, but it’s even softer and finer than regular satin. If you can somehow get it to agree to taking the shape of some kind of wearable garment, it has amazing drape and movement, but sewing it? I don’t use the word very often, but it’s just a bitch, is what it is.

All I need to do is put in a laughably simple hem and decorate two shoulders, and I work on it every one of those four days while Alex stalks around the main room or lies on the couch with the headphones on, listening to… I don’t know, _Don Giovanni_ , or whatever classical music lovers listen to when they’re in a funk. I can hear snippets of dramatic baritones having a drama. And my knowledge of classical music mostly comes from watching _Amadeus_.

But anyway, I get it done. I use the strips I cut off the bottom to cover the shoulders, making them into short, thick straps rather than the little seams that were there originally. Whoever had removed the decorations was none too gentle, and the fabric is badly snagged there. I pave the new straps in bugle beads, and in the end, the effect does remind me of that old dress.

It hadn’t occurred to me to get some elastic or something I could use as a drawstring, so I add that to the list for when I’m finally able to go into town again.

Alex and I cook dinner together every night — quietly, not saying anything unnecessary to the task — but it’s comfortable to have him there, looming and close, in the tiny kitchen.

On the fourth night, while chopping celery, he says, “I really am sorry to be such a bastard.”

I shake my head. “You’re hurting.”

“That’s no reason to make you suffer. Or make you hide out in the loft all day.”

“I’ve lived alone, except for Lola, for seven years. And before that, I had my own bedroom, away from my roommates. You?”

“It’s been over a decade since I’ve lived with anyone,” he says.

“I think we’re doing a pretty good job of managing it, for two people who’re used to having plenty of time alone.”

He plants a kiss on the top of my head.

That night, he comes to bed with me, as opposed to an hour or two after. He has “All the Lonely Things” with him, and he puts on his glasses.

I frown. “I thought you already read it,” I say.

“I read it yesterday,” he says. “I thought, perhaps, I’d read it again tonight, out loud, to you.”

I stare at him as if he just offered to make me the Princess of the Land of Chocolate Desserts and Vibrators.

“Would you like that?” he asks.

“Yes,” I squeak. “Please.”

“Well, are you going to get in bed then?”

“Yes. Do you need anything first? A glass of water or something?”

He points to the clearly visible glass of water on his bedside table.

“Okay,” I say. “I’d better pee first.” I hastily retreat to the bathroom.

This is so… exciting.

Every once in a while I realize I’m… dating (I guess that’s one way of putting it) Alexander Dane. Mostly, he’s Alex, this smart, moody, extraordinary man, with a gorgeous sexy voice and big hands, and warm brown eyes. But every once in a while, I remember that he’s the star of this TV show that has made an incredible impact on my life. And right now I’m feeling both the gratitude and affection that I would feel toward someone who would like to read my work to me, and a fic-writer’s dream-or-possibly-nightmare-come-true. So of course I have to pee.

I’ve calmed down a bit by the time I get back and crawl into bed beside Alex. He’s sitting, leaning against the head of the bed, with pillows propped behind him. I lay my head on his thigh, and he strokes my hair for a second before starting to read.

“The walls, where Dr. Lazarus could see them, were the same shade of light grey as his own quarters, but other than that, no room on the _Protector_ could possibly be more different from the empty box he had called home for the last four years than this.”

You know, here’s the thing about something you’ve read a thousand times — you tend to get really fast at reading it. And anything you’ve written yourself, you’ve probably read ten thousand times. The pacing always seems horribly off by the time you’re done. (If you manage to even reach “done.”) One way to counteract that effect is to read the piece out loud to yourself. After all, you can only talk so fast.

But the best thing is to get someone else to read it out loud to you — hear how it sounds in their head.

But Alex’s voice is the one I heard when I wrote this, and when he reads Dr. Lazarus’s first bit of dialog — “Even an old sickbay bed would suffice.” — it’s just perfect, and I feel this thrill of knowing I got it right.

And then he does Fred’s voice.

Alex can do a dead on impression of Fred — that slow cadence, the slightly amused/slightly bewildered quality, the little touch of music when he speaks.

Even the part where he imitates Nesmith imitating Lazarus is perfect.

By the time he’s finished, I’m convinced I’ve never written anything more amazing in my life.

I can’t even talk, I’m so full of squee.

“How’re you doing down there?” asks Alex.

“I’m… Thank you. That was…” I’m blushing.

Alex scooches down in the bed, and pulls me close.

“Good?” he asks.

“Sublime,” I say.

“It’s a sweet story.”

“Not too out of character?” I ask, a little self-doubt creeping in.

“Not at all. If one accepts the premise that Lazarus and Chen’s sexual preferences are compatible, then it seems like the most natural thing in the world that they could develop feelings for each other in just the way you’ve written it. Your read that Lazarus keeps himself separate from others at least partially because of concerns about the effects of his temper is correct, and I agree with your assessment that Chen is responsive to the needs of those around him, but perhaps not so indulgent of his own.”

I smile at that and snuggle in closer.

“And,” Alex continues, “’Warvan’s tits’ is a wonderful curse.”

“It’s not a very _Galaxy Quest_ sort of story,” I say.

“Mmm. The conflict is internal for both characters. There’s no outside threat.”

“Yeah. I would do it very differently if I were writing a script. I learned a lot, working with Elliot and Ros. But I think it works for a short story.”

“So do I.” Alex kisses me. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“I just hope this memory never gets… messed up,” I say.

“Messed up?”

“You know, like the last time I was here. There’ve been all these moments in the last few weeks that I would hate to lose, but this one… We made something together. I mean, not that we haven’t before, but… This felt especially significant. And it’s a memory already, and memories are… fragile.”

“You really do fear that, don’t you?”

I nod. “Yeah. I keep way more notes now, and about things I didn’t before. It used to be like a report for school. Now I put in private things too.”

 

“Brussels sprouts?” I make a face.

“They’re traditional at Thanksgiving,” says Alex, in his Midwestern accent. He places them on the belt.

“What would you know about it? Cook a lot of Thanksgiving dinners, do you?”

We’ve finally managed to get to town. Alex tagged along with me this time, saying that he wanted to get something at the record store. So after the post office, I went to the sewing supply shop for elastic while Alex took care of whatever he wanted there. I was done with the grocery shopping when Alex caught up to me in line and started adding disgusting green orbs of grossness to my cart.

“I like Brussels sprouts,” he says, choosing not to defend his terrible choices with anything other than an emotional appeal. “Please?”

I mean, it works.

“I hope you didn’t get any more than you can eat yourself,” I say.

“I love Brussels sprouts,” says the cashier, an older grandmotherly type. “We always had them at Thanksgiving when I was a girl.” She winks at Alex.

“See?” he says, and winks back at her.

“Is this your first year with an empty nest?” she asks, ringing up our two Cornish game hens.

I’m caught too flat-footed to reply. I mean, I’m the exact same age my mom was when I went to college, I guess.

“Actually, we’re newlyweds,” says Alex, putting an arm around me.

“Oh!” she says, “How long have you been together?”

“Eleven years now,” says Alex.

The cashier sort of titters at him.

“Sorry,” I say. “He’s incorrigible.”

“He’s a sweetie,” she says, putting the last of our groceries in a bag. “You’re a lucky lady.”

“Don’t I know it,” I say.

When we get back to the cabin, Alex puts on an album he bought — classical guitar by some composer whose name sounds like something made-up that they’d serve at Pizza Hut. It’s very pretty. Alex keeps grabbing me and doing little tangoesque dance spins.

“You’re in a good mood,” I say.

“I think the exercise helped.”

“Makes sense. You did seem to enjoy taking Kami’s bike out before the snow made it impossible.”

“I’ll have to give you more dance lessons to make up for it,” he says, spinning me again and dipping me. “Get the old heart rate up.”

He does end up giving me another dance lesson that afternoon — the Viennese waltz though, not the tango.

“It’s simple,” he says. “It’s just like the waltzes we’ve practiced, but faster.”

It’s not quite that simple, but we get to dance to “Never Tear Us Apart,” so that’s great.

We cook together— roasted carrots and pan-seared catfish. We have it with a saison.

We even light a fire in the fireplace after dinner and hang out on the couch talking.

“You seemed to like the guitar better than the other pieces I usually play,” says Alex.

He’s leaning against one arm of the couch, his legs stretched out along its length. I’m sort of half lying on top of him, wedged against the back of the couch.

“I like the sound of the guitar,” I say. “My dad used to play.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. I can remember him practicing in the living room while I fell asleep in my bedroom.”

“Do you play an instrument?” he asks.

“No. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a terrible sense of rhythm.”

“It’s fine when you forget to think about it.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But as soon as I notice that I’m doing it right, I start to think about it. How about you? Do you play?”

“I do — a little. I had to learn a bit of guitar for a role, and I enjoyed it, so I’ve kept it up… more or less.”

“I’d love to hear it sometime,” I say, because I’m stupid and don’t think about what I’m saying.

But Alex just gives me a little squeeze and kisses my temple.

“What was the part?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Oh, it was an historical drama — a sequel to _Pride and Prejudice_ — not a very good one, I’m afraid, although I liked the storyline I was in.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The writer created some preposterous misunderstanding between Lizzie and Darcy that they could have resolved in three lines of dialog, but which took the combined efforts of Jane, Mr. Bingley, Mr. Bennet, and Charlotte Collins to mend. I played a sensitive young clergyman who has a very tender romance with Georgiana, which we mostly carry out through our shared love of music.”

“Ugh, I hate stories like that. They make me want to scream. The stupid misunderstanding bit, not the part about the guitar-playing priest and Georgiana — that does sound lovely. And I’ll bet you were hot in the costume.”

“Well, of course you’d say that,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just that I can spot a woman who gets off on _Masterpiece Theater_ a mile away,” he says.

I can’t deny it, but I roll my eyes anyway.

“I’d pay good money to see you as Henry Tilney,” I say.

“Really? I don’t know if I’m smooth enough for Henry Tilney. I’m more of a Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“No, you’re not,” I say. “You’re not awkward even if you don’t like crowds of people.”

“Edward Ferrars?”

“Hardly.”

“Colonel Brandon, then.”

“Definitely not,” I say. “Colonel Brandon least of all.”

“No? Why least of all?”

“Because there’s no way that Miss Marianne Dashwood could hear you read more than three lines of a sonnet before she creamed her petticoats. She’d be all ‘Willoughby who?’ and up and marry you on the spot. Poor Eleanor would have to carry the rest of the story by herself.”

“If your response to my reading is any indicator, you may have a point,” he concedes, laughing. “So Tilney’s your favorite, but you’re far more of a Lizzie Bennet than a Catherine Morland.”

“You don’t think Lizzie and Tilney would make a good couple?” I ask.

“They’d make a very sarcastic couple.”

“I suppose Miss Morland and Mr. Darcy need them for character growth or something, but they’d be so entertaining together that I can’t help regretting that they never meet,” I say, shaking my head sadly at the tragedy of the whole situation.

“And if they did?” he asks.

“He’d tease her, and she’d tease back, and they would be delighted at the other one’s wit and insight, and they would get married and live at the parsonage and have fantastic sex and be highly entertained by their neighbors’ shenanigans for the rest of their lives.”

“You don’t think that they would reinforce each other’s bad traits?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe love is inherently ennobling. Learning to be vulnerable and affectionate and careful of another person’s heart — maybe that’s enough to soften us, make us better people.”

He tilts my head toward his and kisses me.

“The things you say,” he whispers.

 

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I get an answer from Elliot.    

 

> Mary Sue,
> 
> I got your letter. Gwen and Amber are friendly. I’ll ask her if she knows anything. Don’t worry; I’ll be subtle.
> 
> — El.

Okey-doke.

When I get back to the cabin, there’s a note on the counter from Alex saying that he went for a walk.

Right away I decide to try on the nightgown. I put the elastic in it a couple days ago, but Alex has been really into togetherness this week, so I haven’t had time to actually try it on and decide how snug to make it.

So I strip down — I want to make sure it looks okay without a bra — and put the nightie on. It feels as fantastic as I thought it would. I’m almost convinced that the 55 bucks was worth it. I’m pretty sure this thing had matching panties once upon a time. I get into my underwear drawer and dig through the not-so-practical pile. There’s a black high-rise string bikini. One of the sides has a little metal star-shaped charm on it. I think it would look cute peeking out of the open side of the gown. I pull them on.

I check myself in the tall free-standing mirror — once I’ve, um, pointed it away from the bed.

I pull the elastic snug and pin it with the safety pin I used to feed it through the channel. This makes the top blouse a little, which I’m thinking doesn’t really set my tits off to their best advantage. I loosen and re-pin the elastic so that the gown skims rather than hugs my waist. I think this drapey look works better, honestly.

I check out the charm on my hip, smooth the front of the gown, and just generally preen a bit. I really like it. It looks good and it feels better.

I can’t resist touching my nipples to feel the cool glide against my skin. They harden immediately. Okay, it’s unanimous. Me and the girls are in perfect agreement here.

Definitely worth 55 bucks and four days of sewing.

“Mary Sue...”

Low and quiet, Alex’s voice rumbles over my skin, making my nipples tighten further.

“Hey,” I say. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He doesn’t say anything, just stares. “I um… I found this at the resale shop in town. It needed some repairs. I was just trying it on… so I could measure the elastic.”

“It’s gorgeous,” he says, still quiet. “You’re gorgeous.”

He hasn’t budged from the top of the stair.

“It’s frivolous, but it reminded me of the dress Letitia lent me. I don’t know if you remember it.”

“Oh, I remember it.” He licks his lips. “I remember it very well.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes. You asked me later what sort of fantasy I had when I masturbate? I couldn’t say it because since I’d seen you in that dress, touching you in it was all I could think about.”

Oh? This is good. I can work with this.

“Touching me... how?” I ask.

He takes a shaky breath.

“I wanted to stroke your body through the fabric — your belly, your arse, your breasts.”

“Yes?” I can tell there’s more, so I wait.

“I… wanted to take off my clothes… and… feel you, _and_ the dress, against my skin.”

I nod. “Well, take them off then.”

He does. Slowly. Teasing me back. Well, I can hardly blame him, can I?

He’s already left his boots by the door, I assume. He’s in stocking feet. He pulls off his sweater and the soft cotton shirt underneath. He watches me as he unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his jeans, and carefully unzips his fly. As he pushes both the jeans and his boxers down over his hips, I can see why he was so careful. He’s already hard.

He gets rid of his socks and stands there — still rooted to that particular spot on the floor, apparently.

I hold out my hand, and he steps forward to take it.

I bring his hand to my face and kiss the knuckles before guiding it down to just graze the side of my breast.

Alex’s breath catches.

I press his palm to my breast.

“Mary Sue,” he says, almost too softly for me to hear. He buries the fingers of his free hand in my hair, and bends down to kiss me, rubbing his palm over my nipple.

I sway a little, letting the loose fabric brush against his cock. He hums low against my mouth.

He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me tight to his body. I can feel his cock, fever warm, pressed into the flesh of my belly. His hands glide over the slippery silk, sometimes stroking my skin beneath it, sometimes gathering it up and letting it fall, smooth and cool through his fingers. He smooths it down over my ass and holds me tighter.

And all through this, he kisses me — sucking and nipping at my lips and tongue. He licks and tastes and crushes my mouth. And when he finally breaks away, his breathing is ragged.

He rests his cheek against the top of my head, and I can feel the tension in him as he tries to will himself calm.

“You like touching me in this,” I say.

“Yes.”

“The silk feels good in your hands and against your skin.”

“Yes.”

I ask the obvious question.

“Would you like to wear it?”

I feel a shiver run down his body.

“Yes,” he says.

Well, well, well.

I take a step back and undo the safety pin. I pull the nightgown over my head, and gather it loosely in my hands.

“Come on then,” I say. “Bend down.”

He bows slightly as if he’s meeting royalty. It’s an oddly formal gesture, considering the circumstances.

“That’s right,” I say, encouraging him. He’s tense.

I slip the gown over his head.

“Stand up,” I tell him, and as he does I let go of the gathered fabric and let it fall down his body.

He gasps.

God, but he’s beautiful and so sensitive, and if he were a woman, I wouldn’t let him out of bed until he’d come a dozen times.

I settle the silvery straps on his fair, freckled shoulders. I adjust the waist until it lays neatly over the lower part of his chest, then I re-pin the elastic.

I walk around him, looking. The gown is cut so generously, that it fits either of us once the waist’s been adjusted. Well, it only reaches to mid-calf on Alex, but otherwise…

His head is still bowed a little, accentuating the knobby line of his backbone. The fabric dips between his shoulder blades. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him where his back is exposed. It’s salty, and I kiss his spine again, letting my tongue touch the skin just above the line of the fabric. The third time, I bite him a little. I can feel the vibration of his voice beneath my lips as he groans softly.

I cup his ass through the fabric, digging my fingertips into the crease under his left cheek, then letting my nails skim up the cleft, up his spine, and down. He shivers again. I can feel his tension.

He wants this, but it’s making him feel vulnerable too.

I continue my circle, letting my hands follow whatever catches my eye. The lingerie accentuates his body in ways I’m not used to — drawing my attention to his hip and the shallow indentation under it. The shape of his pale arms against the dark fabric.

As I come around to his front I look at his face. His lips are parted. His eyes are half-closed, but I can see that the warm brown of his irises has been all but swallowed up by his pupils.

I’m sure mine are about the same.

I reach out my hand and lay it on his chest, just beneath the pectoral muscle, cupping it like a breast.

“Beautiful,” I say. “Fuck. Alex, you’re so beautiful.” It’s not the first time I’ve said that to him, but it’s the first time I’ve said it while he’s wearing lingerie. I hope it’s something he wants to hear.

I’m not sure what the exact thrill is for him. Does it make him feel feminine? Is it mostly the texture? Is it some complicated relationship he has with the object itself?

I flick his nipple with my thumb.

He inhales sharply and swallows.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“Is that the only word you know today?”

“No.”

He cracks the tiniest Mona Lisa smile and I flick his nipple again.

I stroke his silk-clad stomach, letting my fingers slip against his cock. It nudges my hand like a cat trying to get me to pet it.

This silk scrap has him so… sensitized.

So of course I’m responding to that by wanting to do things to him.

“Lie down, please,” I say.

I mean, he’s just too fucking tall. I can’t even kiss him when we’re standing unless he stoops.

And while I would normally be happy to boss him around and tell him to do exactly that, I don’t think that’s what we’re going for right now.

He sits on the bed and scoots back, the silk under his ass slipping against the cover of the duvet. He lies back and watches me.

I move the mirror back to its usual spot next to the bed and climb up after him, kneeling next to his hip.

First I kiss him — soft, tender, chaste kisses.

Then I begin to stroke him — long glides down the length of the silk — clavicle, nipple, ribs, stomach, hip, thigh. Then back up – balls, cock, navel, and nipple again. I go slow, but I don’t linger or change pressure. I let my hand seek whatever gives it pleasure, and trust that it gives Alex pleasure as well.

My hand wanders from time to time off the fabric, stroking the bare skin of an arm or leg, stroking his neck and face. I cup his jaw and kiss him, bending over him, my left nipple brushing the silk. I kiss him, gently tugging at his lower lip — licking and taking it between my teeth.

With my other hand, I take his, anchoring both of us in that now-familiar grip.

And I continue to stroke and pet and touch him.

By the time I need more air than I can get while kissing, Alex is moving, trying to press his body more firmly against my hand.

“What do you need?” I ask.

He looks at me for a second as if he’s forgotten English and how to use it.

“Your hand,” he breathes. “Touch my cock.”

So I wrap my hand around his cock, tucking the silk around it.

“Not too hard,” he says. “I don’t want to — Fuck! — I don’t want to come just yet.”

So I hold him loosely, the heel of my palm against his cock, letting him control the speed and pressure.

And visually, the whole thing is so erotic. The silk shimmering over the muscles of his stomach as he moves, his head thrown back, his throat exposed.

He seems lost in his own little world — just himself, the slippery fabric, and my hands.

He reaches up and pulls me down to kiss him again.

“Mary Sue,” he whispers between kisses. “God. Sweet buggering fuck. This is too…”

His hips still suddenly, and I wait, my hand hovering barely a quarter inch from his cock.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He huffs. “What I want is to come all over this négligée — or whatever you call it — that you no doubt spent hours working on.”

I shrug. “It’s washable, by hand. And besides, I’m going to have to wash it anyway.” I very lightly touch the sticky spot at the tip of his penis.

“Fuck.” He swallows.

“Is that what you wanted all those years ago, Alex?” I rest the tips of my fingers against the base of his cock. “Did you want to get that dress dirty?”

He doesn’t bother to answer me, just slowly pushes into my hand. I grasp him gently.

“It got cool that night. Were my nipples showing?”

He whines and pulls me closer. I kiss his mouth, his cheek. I rub my nose against his beard.

“Did you want to put your mouth on them? Right through the fabric? Leave it damp and sticking to my skin?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

“You know, I wasn’t wearing any panties that night. They would’ve shown through the silk. Did you know that, Alex?”

He nods. “The way it clung to your arse…”

“Did you want to put your fingers between my legs? Did you want to rub that silk against my clit?”

He presses his cock into my hand. “Yes.”

“You wanted to know what sounds I make when I come,” I say.

His movements are getting faster.

“You saw that furrow in the silk where it hugged my ass. You wanted to put your cock there?”

“Yes.”

“You thought about how warm and snug and slippery it would be, didn’t you, Alex?”

“Fuck! Yes.”

“You wanted to rub your cock against all that lush, soft, silky stuff until you came all over it, didn’t you?”

“God! Mary Sue, yes. That — I wanted…”

He pulls me closer and buries his face in my hair. The sounds he makes are like sobs.

His cock pulses in my hand as he releases his orgasm into the black silk.

I stay with him until his grip on my hand relaxes, then I let go and snuggle down next to him, my head on his chest, just listening to his heart as it slows.

After awhile, he strokes my hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t be,” I say. “I’m sure as hell not.”

He gives me a squeeze.

“I’m just… I neglected you.”

I laugh. “And yet, here I am, feeling un-neglected.” I pick my head up so I can see his face. “Look, if this is about the fact that I didn’t come, don’t worry about it. Considering how many times I’ve had, like eight to your one, I think you have some credit built up.”

“I’m going to get you later,” he says. “When my limbs aren’t made of overcooked spaghetti.”

I lay my head back on his chest.

“That was fun. Was that the first time you’ve worn lingerie?” I ask.

“Other than for a role? It’s the second time,” he answers.

I have really got to get out to the theater more.

Also, I really want to hear this story, so I ask the obvious question.

“What color was it?”

“Peach.” I can practically hear the fond smile in his voice.

“You remember it well,” I say.

“God yes, I remember it. It belonged to our neighbour, Mrs. Carlisle. Starting when I was about ten or so, I used to do odd jobs around her garden for spending money. Weeding, cleaning the shed, that sort of thing. But sometimes she also had me pull the wash off the line and bring it inside. She had a long, peach nightgown. It was modestly cut, but it was made of slinky nylon stuff — very silky — at least to a boy who’d never actually touched silk before.”

“So it was a tactile thing?”

“Well, at first,” he says. “I just liked touching it because it was soft and different than anything else I’d ever touched, but as time went on I started to picture what she must look like wearing it. She was a young woman, and a… well-endowed one. And she was kind to me, so I was inclined to like her.

“Anyway, the nightgown eventually got worn out. There was elastic under the bust and it had lost its stretch, so she threw it out. I saw it in the trash and took it home. By then, I was nearly fourteen. So of course I put it on and had a wank at the very earliest opportunity. It was the best, most intense orgasm of my young life, and it remained undefeated for a good many years after.”

“You only did it the one time?” I ask.

“I was afraid that it would be found, and that I’d get a beating for it. So I threw it out.”

“Did that happen a lot?” I ask. “Getting a beating?”

“A fair amount until his death. It was a time and a place where it wasn’t all that uncommon to punish children… harshly. I really never had a sense of him being any worse than the parents of most of my mates. I suspect that just sitting on the sofa calling me a worthless bastard and telling me not to think I was better than anyone else just because I’d gotten into a fancy school required far less effort.”

“Alex. I’m sorry. You deserved so much better.”

He squeezes me again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to bring up unpleasantness.”

“I’m pretty sure _I’m_ the clumsy ass who did that,” I say.

“You helped me relive an exceptionally pleasant experience without the subsequent fear of exposure, and for that I thank you.” He kisses my temple again, and for once, I take the hint.

“Come on,” I say. “Sit up, and I’ll get this off you and get it rinsed out.”

 

I get another letter from Elliot on Thursday.    

 

> Mary Sue,
> 
> I talked to Gwen. She was busy most of September doing a guest appearance on some crime drama with a robot. Then she did a theme cruise to Tahiti, where she came down with mono, of all things. She was sick for nearly three weeks. After that, she went home for a couple weeks at Thanksgiving. In other words, she hasn’t seen Amber in almost three months. However, she did get an invite to go up to Lake Tahoe after Christmas. Amber is renting a house there through February.
> 
> — El

When I get back to the cabin, Alex is reading on the sofa. I plop down next to him and show him the letter.

“Do we wait and speak to her ourselves?” he asks.

“About what?” I ask. “About how there’s a very good chance that she’ll get herself caught up in something shady? And we know this because you sent me a message in five years?”

Alex sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, glares at the floor like it killed his dog. “This is… frustrating,” he says.

“I know.”

“There’s nothing you can remember from your time?”

“Not really.”

“Not reeaallly?”

Well, that was a lot of sarcasm.

“Fine. I don’t know Amber Joie, therefore anything I know _of_ her is public knowledge. I don’t follow celebrity gossip — not because of some virtuous impulse, it just makes me really uncomfortable — so anything that might have penetrated my consciousness would have to be actually newsworthy. She can’t be being blackmailed if whatever she did is on _Morning Edition_. And my memory is…

“Anything that happened in one timeline, but didn’t happen in the current one — you know I remember that shit like its just some story I heard. It’s difficult to differentiate between something that was once real but isn’t anymore, and something that is real but _is_ just a story I heard. Especially with so much non-relevant history up here.” I point to my head.

“There are decades worth of defunct memories in here. It’s a lot to try and sort through, but I _am_ trying.”

Alex rubs his face. “Forgive me. Of course you are.”

“It’s alright,” I say.

Alex sits there looking gloomy as hell for another minute or so before getting up and announcing that he’s going for a walk.

Honestly, it stresses me out to have him be stressed out, but what can either of us do? It’s a stressful situation.

Alex is gone long enough for me to start a _daube Proven_ _çale_ and play some more of _A Mind Forever Voyaging_ on the Mac.

When Alex comes back, he brings in an armload of wood for the fireplace. We don’t need it for warmth, but we often spend the evenings snuggled up on the couch in front of the fireplace, drinking wine (or beer or smoking one of the joints that somehow made it into Alex’s gym bag), listening to music, and of course, talking.

Or sometimes we take a bath together.

Or sometimes we just head straight to bed.

Alex comes over to where I’m sitting at the computer. He crouches behind my chair and buries his cold nose in my neck.

“It smells good in here,” he murmurs.

“Here in the cabin, or here under my hair?” I ask.

“It smells good in here,” he repeats.

Then he plants several chilly kisses down my neck, leaving the last one on my latest love bite.

I reach up and scratch his jaw through his beard.

For the thousandth time I want to tell him that I love him.

But I don’t.

It’s not that I’m afraid he doesn’t love me — I’m sure he does. It’s not that I think it will make things awkward — I know it wouldn’t.

It’s that we might then talk about the pain we’re letting ourselves in for.

And then we might start holding back — not for our own sakes, but for the other person’s sake.

I can’t bear to hear that he’ll wait, that he’ll just quietly be lonely for years, not knowing when he’ll see me again. For _years_.

And I don’t think he wants to hear me say that coming back and finding him with someone else will tear a hole in my heart that I doubt will ever heal properly even though I’ll mean it when I say that I’m glad he’s happy.

Both of those things are too painful and too dangerous.

I love him. I shouldn’t, of course. I shouldn’t, but I do. I pull him closer, love him more, knowing that it will be like ripping my fucking arm off to leave him.

He loves me. I’m not an idiot. He doesn’t say it. On the other hand, he doesn’t hide it either.

So we dig ourselves deeper, and I should feel afraid, and I should feel guilty. I’m going to hurt him, and I hate that, but I’m watching him take the hooks and press them into his skin. Enough to flay him when I go. And I let him, because it’s what he wants. And I can’t not give him what he wants, especially when it’s what I want too.

Neither of us has any sense of self-preservation. What would we save ourselves for? All we have is now, this moment, and we can’t help but polish this moment and make it as beautiful and intimate and loving as possible.

Trusting that the pain will be more than we can imagine, and worth it.

We finish making dinner together. We eat the _daube_ over roasted potatoes and wash it down with strong, dark Belgian ale.

We light a fire and lie on the couch, watching the flames.

We’re quieter than usual — peaceful.

Somehow it’s become as easy to be with Alex as it is to be alone. Not all the time of course. It’s never easy _all_ the time. But there are long stretches like this — stretches of contentment and companionship and ease.

I’d say I don’t want it to end, but that’s not strictly true. What I want is to move this feeling out of this unreal bubble and into my life, even if it means making big changes in that life.

Too bad my real life is seven years from now.

 

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I sift through my memories, trying to remember everything I can about Amber Joie. It seems to me that I do spot a hint of some scandal attaching to her, but it’s so ephemeral that I can never quite catch hold of what it is. It’s not about sex, though. Not lust, I think, but greed. Alex says that’s even less in keeping with her personality.

“She has a few sexual peccadilloes that, taken out of context, could be deeply uncomfortable for her to have exposed,” he says delicately. “But her integrity is further above reproach than most people find possible to achieve.”

So, yeah. I get nowhere.

The rest of the time I spend trying to make something for Alex for Christmas.

We aren’t really doing anything to celebrate. Mi-Na has a section of the basement dedicated to the storage of Christmas decorations because one part of her heritage will always be Midwestern Lutheran Christmas spirit. I know how she feels. I’m not even Christian anymore, but I celebrate the hell out of Winter Solstice anyway. Not this time though. The idea of possibly leaving Alex with a bunch of decorations to take down after I’m gone seems just a little too sad. I do get out a couple of very pretty blue mugs with snowflakes on them though. We drink tea from them in the mornings, and at night I make hot chocolate with ancho chilies and cinnamon.

And when Alex goes for walks, I work on writing him a story. It ends up being a weird little fairytale about strings and memories, and I hope he gets what I’m trying to say. I mean, I hope I say it right. And I hope that leaving this behind doesn’t mess anything up.

Anyway, it’s very short. I manage to finish it and edit it obsessively a few dozen times before I finally say fuck it and print it off two days before Christmas. I bind it in one of those folders with the three fasteners inside.

I’m the first to wake up in the middle of the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas. When I get back from the bathroom, Alex is still asleep, so I pull a Father Christmas and put the folder at the end of the bed before crawling back in. He wakes. He always does. He pulls me closer, curls around me, warms me up.

“Mary Sue,” he says, his voice soft and low — the intimate sound of a sleepy Alexander Dane.

“Mmm, yes?” I kiss him.

“Santa has been here.”

“He has?!” — like I’m speaking to a child who is excited to see their bulging stocking.

“Yes, he has,” says Alex, solemnly playing along.

“How do you know?” I ask, my eyes widening in wonder.

“I can feel something at the end of the bed.”

“You know he only does that in Britain, right?”

“Nonsense. He does it in Ireland as well.”

“Well, I guess he’s expanding the practice to the States,” I say.

Alex sits up and turns on the lamp on his side of the bed. He retrieves the folder and opens it. He reads the title aloud.

“’My Heart Will be Waiting.’ You wrote this?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Elves didn’t do it.”

“For me?”

“You’re holding the only copy,” I say. “Well, I mean, there’s a digital copy on the Palm. That's the only physical…”

He kisses me.

“… copy,” I say.

He kisses me again and pulls me into his lap.

“I love it,” he says.

“You haven’t even read it,” I say.

“You could have put the recipe for grilled cheese sandwiches in there, and I’d still love it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. Why…”

He kisses me.

“…would I…”

Kisses me.

“…do…”

Kisses

“…that?”

“You wouldn’t,” he says. “That’s the point.”

“You’re still not making sense.”

“Shall I read first, or should we make love first?”

“Make love,” I say. “I don’t think I can take watching while you read it the first time.”

I do end up watching him though, much later, when we wake up again. He lies with his head on my stomach, and I stroke his hair as he reads.

“Are you the knight or the witch?” he asks.

“Both,” I say. “I’m the one that wrote it. I’m the fine lady and the squire in the tack room and the horse too.”

He laughs and rolls onto his belly, propping himself on his folded arms.

“I made you something too.”

“Yeah?” I say.

“Yeah.” He sits up and leans over to the table on his side of the bed. He pulls out a small box wrapped in red paper, about the size of a cassette tape case . He hands it to me, and I sit up and open it.

It’s a cassette tape. It’s neatly labeled — “All the Lonely Things My Hands Have Done” — read by Alexander Dane, Xmas 1992.”

“Is this you reading my story?” I ask, brilliantly.

“I didn’t want you to lose that memory,” he says.

All I can do is sit there, clutching the tape to my chest.

“I made a copy,” he says. “I’ll keep that one in case this one ever gets lost in your travels.”

I sniffle.

“Mary Sue? Are you going to cry?”

I nod, tears already starting.

“That good?” he asks.

“That good,” I say.

 

On the Monday after Christmas, I go ice skating. I suck at ice skating, but Elliot says that Gwen has mentioned about a million times that she loves to skate at the Olympic Pavilion at Squaw Valley.

So I do my makeup — leaving off the concealer and using way too much powder — and pull my hair into a high tight bun in order to maximize the amount of grey hair showing. Most of my greys grow from the area around my hairline. When my hair is down, it gives the effect of two stripes framing my face, but if I pull it back and up, the greys fan out and cover the dark hair, giving it a salt-and-pepper-heavy-on-the-salt effect.

Hopefully, I look fifteen years older.

Although honestly, if that doesn’t age me, the bus trip might do the job.

Luckily, I don’t have to go twice in order to bump into Gwen.

“Mary Sue?!”

“Hey, Gwen,” I say, grinning at her. It’s actually nice to see her again. I have a soft spot for Gwen. We go get some coffee.

“You look great! What are you doing in Tahoe?” she asks.

“Well, you know – I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” I wink at her.

“Business, huh?” She frowns commiseratingly.

“Afraid so,” I say with a shrug. “But not busy business. I’m getting to see the sights.” I gesture at the pavilion, which is admittedly impressive. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m staying with a friend. We’re renting a house together with a couple other girls.”

“Sounds very _Enchanted April_ , but in December.”

“Exactly, except none of us have husbands, although I suppose Amber gets her share of ‘admirers.’”

“Amber?” I ask innocently.

“Amber Joie. We met back in 1980, when she did _Galaxy Quest_.”

“Oh yeah. ‘For the Moon is Hollow.’ She was Princess T’Prang.”

“That’s the one,” says Gwen. “I didn’t know you followed the show when you weren’t on the set.”

“Sure did,” I say. “I have the whole series on DVD.”

Fuck. DVDs are a thing, right? I’ve gotten too unguarded only talking to Alex.

We spend the next twenty minutes or so “catching up,” and by “catching up” I mean “talking about Gwen’s life while I deflect questions about mine with hints that it’s mostly been super-secret.”

I know the outline of Gwen’s life, if not the details. Although she’s really quite a good actress, her window to break into the big time closed a few years ago. Hollywood isn’t terribly interested in women over thirty unless they’re already making big bank, and even then, the parts tend to get fewer and farther between. Gwen’s been staying in the public eye with QVC and Tawny Madison appearances, and she starts filming a movie for the Lifetime channel next month. She’s made some smart investments, so she’s not hurting financially, but it still probably stings to have already hit her peak, career-wise.

Eventually, she gets around to inviting me to a New Year’s Eve party at the house she’s renting with Amber.

Bingo!

I accept her gracious invitation.

Then it’s another hour-plus-long busride, with three changes, back to the stop nearest the cabin.

Alex meets me and walks me home, for which I’m grateful. It’s been a grind, getting this invite to meet Amber Joie. And I’m not even sure what good it will do me, but at least it’s something.

Alex has also made dinner — some kind of creamy chicken soup.

It really is too bad I can’t keep him.

“Mary Sue?”

I’m staring at my soup and thinking about all the times after a particularly long shift at the bakery I’ve dragged my sorry ass back to a mostly empty apartment and a tiny furry tyrant demanding his breakfast. I watch as watery little splashes break up the creamy surface of my dinner — that Alex made for me — that he had _waiting_ for me — when I came… home.

Alex pushes his chair back and takes my hand. He tugs on it, and I get up and go to him. I sit in his lap and let him hold me and take my hair down and kiss me.

“My supper’s getting cold,” I say.

“I can reheat it,” he says. “I can’t do a bloody thing for it if you get it all salty.”

Alright, that gets a chuckle. I card my fingers through his beard and nuzzle his neck a little.

“Thank you,” I say.

“It’s my honour,” he tells me.

 

A few nights later, I’m standing in the loft, tugging at my outfit — a fuzzy, off-the-shoulder, hip-length black sweater, cream-colored stirrup pants and my tall black boots.

“You look lovely,” says Alex.

“Really?” I say, making the sort of face that I would have once referred to as “gag me with a spoon.”

“Well, I am biased, I suppose,” he says, putting his hands on my waist and sliding them down to my butt. “I am rather fond of you in soft things.”

“I guess it does _feel_ nice,” I admit.

“Mmm,” agrees Alex, his mouth on my exposed shoulder.

“It’s just that I’ve always hated the clothes that responsible adult women are supposed to wear. But since I’m pretending to be one tonight…” I pluck at the sweater some more.

“Are you sure you don’t want me along?” asks Alex.

“I’d rather you stay hidden. It’s dangerous enough going there myself.”

Alex’s jaw tenses.

“I don’t mean I’ll be in some kind of mortal peril,” I say. “But if Amber really is the key to this, Steve might be watching her. I don’t want to tip my hand.”

“Somehow, I’m not reassured,” he says dryly.

“I need information. This can’t go on indefinitely. And I need to not be worried about you.”

“It’s galling to be doing nothing.”

“I know.” I put my hands on his big old shaggy head and pull it closer so that I can kiss him.

“Well, if I had to be held hostage, I’m glad it was by you,” he says.

I splurge on a cab. Normal people think it’s weird when you just show up at their house unaccompanied by the sound of a motor, and I’m trying to blend in. I don’t want to get made as a poor person or a hippie. Especially since I may need to be convincing at some point.

It doesn’t pay to make a bad first impression.

The party, it turns out, is exactly like the thousand or so other parties I attended in another lifetime, except the politics are more liberal — which means a little less wear and tear on my molars, I suppose.

The guys are in the living room, drinking craft beer like it’s something they actually care about, with just enough of an audience to keep them posturing, although nobody’s drunk enough to egg them on yet.

Most of the ladies (and a handful of the gentlemen) are hanging in the kitchen where they can hear themselves talk. Gwen informs me that there’s pitchers of Long Island iced tea and box wine in the fridge when I join them there.

I just have a Coke. I’m expecting my period and the resulting headache any second now.

Eventually, Amber circulates her way into the kitchen to refresh her empty glass. She pours herself about a third of a Long Island, then tops it up with diet Sprite.

That’s clever, actually.

Gwen introduces us.

“Have you known each other long?” asks Amber.

“I met Mary Sue the same way I met you,” says Gwen. “She used to work on _Galaxy Quest_.”

“Oh? I’m afraid I don’t remember you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say. “This is the first time we’ve met. I worked on the show for awhile in the first season and for a couple weeks in the third.”

“Okay. That explains it. I was in the second season.” She smiles that big shiny smile she’s almost as famous for as she is for her sexy walk. “What did you do?”

“I’m a consultant,” I say. “I kept the tech consistent.”

“It was a great show,” says Amber. “I still get fan mail for it. My assistant passed one on to me just last week from a little girl who told me that she wants to grow up to be just like Princess T’Prang because she was so smart, and ran a whole planet, and was purple.”

“Little girls love T’Prang,” says Gwen. “There’s always at least two or three at every con running around in silver dresses and purple makeup.”

“I had no idea what a phenomenon it would become when I agreed to be on the show,” says Amber. “But I had a great time, and made some very good friends.” She smiles sweetly at Gwen.

“It was the same for me,” I say.

And so on and so forth. We chat about the usual inconsequentia. Amber seems like a very nice person — smart, kind, friendly, but private. I really don’t get a gets-up-to-monkey-business sort of vibe from her, but it’s hard to tell that sort of thing just from talking to someone for ten minutes at a party.

Which reminds me. I’m looking for information. I start to circulate.

Ye gods and little fishes but this is boring.

Amber appears to be as straight-laced as Alex made her out to be, and there’s not much in the way of sex, drugs, or rock-n-roll going on. Just flirting, drinking, and smooth jazz.

At least I have the other Mary Sue’s memories to draw on. I’d have no way of knowing what upper-middle-class people do at parties otherwise.

So the first thing is everybody always asks what you do. I hate this question. However, as someone who does some kind of super-secret work, I can just tell people my cover story — I’m a technical consultant. Then I just wave questions about my job away by saying that it’s terribly boring and couldn’t I hear more about their job instead? A few people hate the question as much as I do, but are happy to talk about the book they just read or movie they just saw.

Not that I like doing that either. I always feel like I’m prying horribly even when asking the most general questions possible.

How are you enjoying Tahoe?

Have you seen _Scent of a Woman_ yet?

How do you know Amber?

Ugh.

This is why all of my friends are in fandom. It’s the only way I can meet anyone without making a total mess of it.

Eventually, though, I meet Dave. Bless his little narcissistic heart.

Dave is Amber’s stock broker. Dave is very smart and makes Loads of Money. Dave likes to talk about Dave. Dave went to the University of Michigan.

“Go Blue,” I say.

“Did you go to U of M?” asks Dave.

“No, but I’m from Michigan.”

“MSU? You look like a Spartan.” He winks.

“K.” I tell him. This shuts down the flirtatious Michigan institutions of higher education rivalry conversation. With one letter I’ve just strongly hinted that I’m intellectual, wealthy, or both.

On the chance that I’m wealthy or both, he starts cultivating me as a business contact rather than a personal one.

I let him talk me up. I’m still convinced that the key to this whole thing is Amber and the key to Amber is her finances. I try to look fascinated when Dave gets around to all the great investments he’s made for Amber.

I know nothing about stock brokering, but I bet he’s not supposed to be telling me half this shit.

“You know,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper that could be heard in outer Mongolia. “I’m about to bring Amber in on a great opportunity. I could get you in too.”

“What kind of opportunity?” I ask, pretending to be someone who is pretending to play it cool.

“A money market fund.”

Okay, I’ll admit I tuned right the hell out when Kevin would talk about the finer points of our investments, but I don’t think you even need a broker to invest in a money market fund.

What I _am_ sure of is that my time-traveler senses are tingling.

“Oh?”

“Have you ever heard of Lootes Investment Securities?”

Ding ding ding.

I’ve heard of it, alright. In 1999, Orson Lootes is modeling his fancy new ankle monitor in his fancy old penthouse while awaiting his trial for plain old investment fraud and whatever else they could find to charge him with. The maximum sentence if he’s convicted of the whole kit and caboodle is like, three times as long as the average human lifespan.

And they’re rounding up his accomplices too.

Including some celebrities that allegedly shilled for him.

“Mmm. Doesn’t ring any bells,” I say.

Dave spends the next fifteen minutes somehow making the acquisition of obscene amounts of money sound as exciting as flossing your teeth.

He also gives me his card.

By then, it’s getting close to midnight, so I duck out of my conversation with Dave and go hunt up Gwen.

I find her in the basement (where all the albums newer than _Graceland_ are kept, I guess) dancing with some of the other guests to “Groove is in the Heart.”

I sit and watch the dancing for a bit, grateful that no one can talk over Dee-Lite.

Or En Vogue for that matter.

There’s a lull as the room realizes that the countdown is coming up, and Gwen comes over to talk to me.

“I gotta get going,” I say. “My pumpkin’s about to turn into a coach.”

“What?” she asks. “You got a date?”

“I kidnapped a hottie. I need to get back before he chews through his ropes.”

“Kinky. Stay for the countdown at least.”

So I do. And at midnight, I stand on my tiptoes and give Gwen a smooch on the cheek.

 

It’s nearly one o’clock when I finally get back to the cabin. With everybody partying tonight, the cabs are busy. My driver is none too happy when I make him stop at a pay phone on the way, but I need to call Elliot. I don’t have time for letters. Mi-Na will be wanting her cabin back soon.

There’s a fire in the fireplace when I get back.

I hang up my coat and leave my boots on the mat.

I strip off my socks and pants in the kitchen.

Alex is lying on the couch, a velour blanket under him and a down comforter on top.

He watches me as I stop near the dining table and shuck my sweater.

“How did it go?” he asks.

“Good,” I say. “I think I may have cracked it.”

“Oh? How so?”

I reach behind myself and unhook my bra.

“Is this really what you want to talk about right now?” I ask.

He smiles.

“No.”

I slip out of my panties, and Alex offers me his hand.

I take it and crawl under the comforter.

He’s only wearing boxers, and I stretch out on him, getting as much skin-to-skin contact as I can. He unfastens my barrette, and pulls my hair down, combing through it with his fingers until it’s puffed out again.

We kiss. A gentle press of mouths — tender and sweet — tongues sliding soft and wet. His hand cradles the back of my head, his other hand strokes my shoulder. I card my fingers through his beard and taste him.

When I pull back to look at him again, he says, “How long?”

“A few days maybe. I can never say for sure.”

He nods and slides his hand down my body until it rests on my ass. He lifts his head and kisses me again.

 

My period starts in the middle of the night, and as a result, I end up downing a bunch of ibuprofen at about six a.m. and going back to sleep until nearly ten-thirty. But at least I wake up mostly pain-free. It isn’t until we’ve made a big brunch and are eating it that Alex asks me again what happened at the party.

“I met Amber’s stock broker,” I say. “Or a at least a guy who would like to be her stock broker and believes in the power of speaking his own reality.”

I tell him about Dave’s offer to help me invest in what is actually a Ponzi scheme of epic proportions.

“Of course there’s every possibility that Dave doesn’t know that. He’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is, and greed will shave a few more IQ points off a person.”

“And you think that he’ll get Amber involved in some way that will make her seem culpable in the crime,” says Alex, immediately putting two and two together.

“Lootes’ got a number of wealthy celebrities to recruit new investors. Some of them knew it was a con. The money was going more-or-less straight into their pockets. It looked legit because the fund could always pay out using the money coming in from new investors, which are in sufficient supply as long as the economy is basically on the upswing. But something happened with some country in Asia – just totally borked everything for a bunch of his investors. Suddenly, he had too many people wanting payouts and not enough people paying in, and the scam collapsed.

“They were still trying to sort out good faith actors from bad, years later. I’m guessing that Steve has evidence that could make it look like Amber’s in the ‘bad faith’ category.”

“I really can’t imagine her doing such a thing,” says Alex.

“I don’t think 1997-you can imagine it either,” I say. “You use the phrase, ‘a trap for the unwary.’ You talk about ‘an innocent’ being being seduced into that trap.”

“I would do what I could to protect her from what I believe to be false, though damning, accusations,” he says.

“But you know Steve Gagorian is involved and you don’t know what role he might be playing. The fact that he isn’t hiding his involvement points to him using you to smoke me out, so you send me a message telling me to come here, now, while I still have a chance to stop the whole mess from happening. It’s pretty brilliant of you, actually.”

“Except how do you stop it?” he asks. “You can’t just go to Amber and explain that you know the future.”

“No. I have Elliot looking for evidence. Once the news broke, tons of people came out of the woodwork to point out the warning signs that had been there all along. I told Elliot what I could remember. Hopefully, he can gather enough evidence to make investing with this guy seem like a bad idea. And that’s where we are now,” I say.

“Alright,” says Alex. He takes my hand and asks me, “What do you want to do today?”

“Can we dance?”

“Yeah, we can dance.”

That’s the last we speak of it that day or the next. Actually, we’re much quieter than usual, but it’s not a tense quiet. We listen to music, we cook and dance, we clean away the evidence of our having stayed here.

When we do talk, it’s about the old familiar favorites — books, plays, movies. We go see _Strictly Ballroom_ on Saturday night.

We have sex — touching each other like we want to memorize every texture, every sound, every taste. Saving them for comparison the next time we meet. Keeping them in case there is no next time. Alex asks to leave a mark on my shoulder.

On Sunday morning, Elliot calls.

“I’m in South Lake Tahoe,” he says. “How do I get to where you are?”

I give him directions.

When he gets to the cabin, he gives me one of his rock-solid hugs.

“Elliot,” I say, hugging him back. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Same here,” he says, holding me at arm’s length.

“Alex. Good to see you.” Elliot shakes Alex’s hand.

“Elliot,” says Alex.

“I like the beard,” says Elliot. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.”

Elliot picks up an old portfolio bag that he had set down in the entryway when he went to hug me. “Let me show you what I’ve found.”

We head into the dining area. Elliot starts pulling out photocopies and laying them out on the table.

“It’s not a lot,” he says. “But it’s pretty safe to say that it’s clear nobody should be investing with this guy.”

“This is more than I hoped for, Elliot,” I say, skimming over the papers he’s brought.

“Well, I got help. Casey works in investment banking. He knew where to look. He says that everybody knows that Lootes’ numbers don’t add up. He’d be the entire stock exchange if he was doing the kind of volume he claims.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask.

“You got me,” says Elliot. “That’s why I brought Casey along, that and the romantic train ride from L.A. to San Francisco.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “Don’t act so surprised, Alex. You knew,” says Elliot. “Anyway, it was a long trip. Casey’s taking a nap back at the hotel. I decided to come over and find out what you want to do next.”

Camp here for the next seven years and fuck Alex stupid while Mi-Na tries to figure out why she and Kami never seem to get around to going to the cabin anymore.

“I think we should talk to Gwen,” I say.

“Gwen?” says Elliot.

Alex nods.  “It would look odd if we were to just show up out of the blue to warn Amber about her financial decisions,” says Alex. “Gwen can provide a reason for us to be there.”

“Plus, there’s nothing stopping Steve from trying to get to me through other people I’m close to. That leaves Frank, Letitia, and Gwen vulnerable. Frank and Letitia already know about Steve. I think Gwen should know to be on her guard too. Plus, as you pointed out, she likes to worry about you guys. It’ll make getting to any of you that much more difficult.”

“Are you going to tell her what you’re really doing here?” asks Elliot.

“No,” I say. “Either she’d think I was joking and she wouldn’t listen to me about the rest of it, or she’d believe me, and that’s dangerous. Way too many people already know.”

 

So, an hour later, we’re all sitting at the dining table with coffee (okay, mine’s milk and sugar with some coffee in it) and cinnamon babka. And I’m explaining to Gwen that my mysterious job is wound up with this guy named Steve Gagorian.

“He was the guy who was vandalizing the set in the first season,” I say. “He also tried something in the third season, but I took care of that too.”

“And that’s why you suddenly showed up for two weeks,” says Gwen.

“Yeah. There’s been at least one other time that he targeted _Galaxy Quest_ or the people who worked on it — that I know of. But I really can’t talk about it.”

“Okay,” says Gwen. “But why? Does this guy have some sort of grudge?”

“He has other reasons, but by this point, he wouldn’t mind it if he could accomplish his goals _and_ punish me for fucking up his plans. I believe that he targeted Alex with that in mind.”

“That’s why you disappeared?” she asks Alex.

“Have you ever known me to need a break from acting?” asks Alex.

“Well, no,” she says. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

“Anyway,” I say. “Be careful. He may know that you and I are also friends.”

“Friends?” she says. “Is that what you two are?”

I look at Alex and smile. “Yes, we are.”

He smiles back.

“Well, if that’s ‘friends,’ Mary Sue, then you and I are barely acquaintances.”

After that, Alex and I finish packing. Even if warning Amber against Dave and Lootes doesn’t send me back, we have to vacate the cabin. Elliot has found us a place to stay near Portland, just in case.

I’m making a final check in the loft when Gwen comes up.

“You’re going soon, huh?” she asks. “Back to whatever it is you do?”

“I have to,” I say.

“But you don’t want to, I gather.”

“I think that’s pretty clear. I don’t exactly hide it well.”

“No, neither of you do.”

I blink back tears.

“Hey, Mary Sue,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “Just… check in with him once in a while, would you?”

“Of course I will,” she says. “He’s my good… acquaintance, you know.”

Alex corners me as I’m double-checking the bathroom.

“If I hadn’t been at the center of all of this, would you have contacted me?”

I look at the freshly-scrubbed tub.

He rests his hand on my cheek.

“You wouldn’t have,” he says. “Because it only stands to reason that I would likely have found someone I wanted to be with in those nine and a half years since I last saw you, and having you turn up would only have been painful for both of us — all three of us.”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” I say. “I’m sor—”

“Shh. I’m not.” He tilts my head up. “I tried, Mary Sue. I did. But what I felt with anyone else isn’t half of what I feel with you. I resigned myself to that, but I won’t do it again.”

“Alex, I can’t ask you to wait,” I say.

“You’re not.” He slides his fingers into my hair. “I won’t even promise to be a monk. But your time is precious to me, and whatever you can spend with me, whenever you can spend it — I want it. Please say that if you have to return and circumstances permit it, you’ll contact me.”

How can I say no?

When he asks so sweetly?

I nod my head. “I will. I promise.” And I kiss him.

Gwen is already gone when we finish our sweep of the cabin.

Alex and Elliot climb into Elliot’s rented SUV and head over to the hotel to pick up Casey. After that, they have a little meeting with Amber.

I lock up the cabin and leave the key on the counter beside the note that Alex left for Kami and Mi-Na.

I sit on the couch with my knapsack. All of the things that I’m not taking back with me, including the silk nightgown, are in a box in the back of the SUV.

I realize that I’m still wearing the wedding ring. I slip it off and drop it into the knapsack.

I think about what will happen when I get back to my own time. I think about the promises I’ve made to Alex — that this won’t be the last time he sees me. He’s never made a secret of wanting more from me than interludes.

For once, I let myself spin that scenario out — the one where he and I get together after this is all over.

I wonder what my friends would think? That makes me giggle.

And gives me an idea.

I pull the Palm out of the knapsack and attach the camera. I take some pictures of the cabin, including the Mac printer, (I don’t want to go get the key and unlock the secretary again or I’d take a pic of the computer.) the calendar magnet that holds one of the pizza menus, and the letter Alex wrote.

Then I sit back down on the couch and take out the Walkman I picked up at the resale shop. I put Alex’s tape in it, switch it on, place it back in the open knapsack, and listen to Alex’s voice reading the familiar words of my first slash fic.

It’s nearly to the part where they kiss, when the gold sparkles start.

I yank the head phones off and stuff them into the knapsack.

 

It’s not sharks this time, or minnows. It’s more like a sickly guppy that just wriggles feebly a couple of times and gives up.

What makes me lose my lunch is the giant hole in the corner of the room and the sheer drop 26 floors down to a glowing, smoking crater.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex talks about his abusive step-father and an early sexual experience with a pilfered nightgown.
> 
> Songs!  
> INXS -- [Never Tear Us Apart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyZU4iNRdsM) \-- Michael Hutchence, Andrew Farriss  
> Joe Miller -- [Libertango](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IjkPIhymoBs) \-- Astor Piazzolla  
> Van Morrison -- [Moondance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7kfYOGndVfU) \-- The story Mary Sue wrote for Alex is named for a lyric in this song.  
> Cyndi Lauper -- [All Through the Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZONKoKIQ9RY) \-- Yeah, I know "Time After Time" is the obvious choice.  
> Sir Neville Marriner, Academy Of St. Martin In The Fields, Ambrosian Opera Chorus, John McCarthy, John Tomlinson, Richard Stilwell, Willard White -- [Don Giovanni, Act Il, Commendatore Scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8zB6hXEMV50) \-- Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart  
> Deee-Lite -- [Groove Is In the Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etviGf1uWlg) \-- Dmitry Brill; Chung Dong-Hwa; Kierin Kirby; Herbie Hancock; Jonathan Davis  
> En Vogue -- [My Lovin' You're Never Gonna Get It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JIuYQ_4TcXg) \-- Denzil Foster and Thomas McElroy  
> Mark Williams and Tara Morice -- [Time After Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRx0b993Lj4) \-- Hey! There it is!


	10. Quest Con Seventeen -- 1998

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new computer and an AOL account create unlimited access to fandom drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mak'Tar genocide is brought up again in a bit more detail, and Lazarus suffers a bout of depression due to PTSD.
> 
> Also, this is the one with the tentacles. <3

The fifth picture is of me and Cece and Trent. We’re lying on a hotel bedspread. I’m in the middle, with Cece to my right and Trent to my left. Cece and I are looking at each other with the soft, unfocused expression of the well-baked. Trent is turned toward us with his head pillowed on his arm, watching us.

I’ve looked at that picture a million times in the last year, wondering if there’s any hint in Trent’s expression of whatever has been troubling him, whatever he’s been letting get between us. I know it started right around con, but it hadn’t gotten really big yet.

Not like it is now.

So I’m sure by now you’re wondering how someone whose ducks keep waddling out of their row the way mine do manages to have three whole boyfriends. Well, that’s a long, strange trip, but the short answer would be that I don’t consider seeing someone new to be an adequate reason to stop dating someone old.

After Jackson, I dated a lot. I was definitely looking for someone with whom I could have the sort of chemistry that Jackson and I had when we were first starting out. You know how it is when you’re just stupid in love? You see them walking across the quad or whatever — your brain doesn’t even need that many clues, just the way they move or the distinctive color of their favorite shirt and suddenly your whole limbic system is throwing a party? And how great it is when you can see them recognizing you and see them having the exact same reaction?

That. I was looking for that.

But it didn’t happen.

Maybe it was just too hard. Before Jackson, the worst thing was to feel that excitement and, in the next moment, realize that the other person barely knew of my existence. After Jackson, I knew that the real worst was having that reaction and then seeing revulsion on the other person’s face. Or having that reaction only to have it be a mistake — a misfire brought on by someone with a similar walk or shirt — and realizing that I was looking for him still, after it was over and the earth had been salted.

So I started looking for other things from my relationships, and I found them. Companionship, affection, support, and a shared sense of fun, which is something I think people tend to undervalue.

But I missed that spark. And I think it kept me from getting as close as I might have if it had been there. It always felt like there was just one tiny piece missing, although I did my damnedest not to let that tiny piece become a big deal.

I hate to drop a perfectly good boyfriend just because he isn’t scratching all of my itches.

Also, I hate the word, “boyfriend.” We’re all in our mid-thirties or older, for fuck’s sake. However, “lover” is TMI and not technically accurate in every instance. “Gentleman caller” is a little too… delicate — like a euphemism for something that only the most prudish person would see a need to euphemize. “Partner” sounds like I’m dating a woman, joining a law firm, or deluded into thinking I’m an old cow-hand from the Rio Grande.

 _Seinfeld_ coined the term, “friend with benefits,” but I think that might also be a bit TMI as well, and I doubt it’ll ever gain traction.

I usually call them “my dudes.”

On the weekend that I attended Quest Con 18, these were my dudes --

1\. Sean Healy — Sean is a pilot. At the ripe old age of 42, he’s just now getting to that place with his airline where he doesn’t always get the shittiest schedule (and the lowest pay). He’s been living in Seattle with his girlfriend (their word), Marcie, for ten years now. They opened their relationship up about seven years ago, which, as these things often go, meant that she had plenty of dates and he had almost none. Marcie, honest-to-goodness, fixed us up. She knew me from working a state park here one summer, and Sean used to get long layovers in Grand Rapids. It was… different, but I agreed to go on a date with him, and, as it turned out, we hit it off. For the last four years, I’ve seen Sean for a couple days twice or three times a year. It’s nice. He’s great in bed and a ginger. There’s just something about freckles and flame-orange pubes that kind of turns me on. We always have a terrific time when we see each other, but it’s also always something of a special occasion. We usually make it a point to eat someplace fancy or see a show or both. There’s none of that intimacy you get when you spend lots of down time with a person. When we’re apart, we’re content to just IM each other whenever the mood hits us — maybe once a week or so.

2\. Gunner Wilde — I first met Gunner while I was still doing my baking in the coffee shop kitchen. He’s the day shift manager, and he’s one of those dream managers. He keeps the atmosphere friendly yet professional, he’s fair and patient, and he always has the employees’ backs when a customer gets cranky. His looks are what people call “exotic,” meaning “ambiguously multi-racial.” (His mom’s Black and his dad’s white and Latino.) He wears his hair in short dreadlocks on top with the sides buzzed short. People tend to assume he’s an artist. He’s not, but he exudes a sort of confident, open energy that seems kind of artsy.

People are very drawn to him — _lots_ of people. I’m his only long-term… thing. He’s addicted to what we in the polyamorous community refer to as “new relationship energy.” He loves falling in love. He loves the flirting, the butterflies in the stomach, the all-night phone calls, the all-weekend bed sessions, the whole romantic kit and caboodle. It’s not like he doesn’t also like the quieter, more low-key stuff that comes with being in someone’s life for a long time, but it just can’t hold his attention like a brand-new, shiny romance can. Every six months or so, he’s met a new love of his life. He always has to tell me how amazing and perfect they are, and he’s never been this smitten by someone before. It’s a bit like being Bertie Wooster to his Bingo Little, only with more sex. (Or not. I’m not in a position to judge what Bertie and Bingo might have gotten up to.) This is followed by an absence of a couple of weeks (if they reject him and he needs some time to feel sad) or months (if they get together and his new partner has the stamina). Eventually, though, the romance cools, and Gunner and his new friend become “just friends” — with or without benefits. Then he’s back, ready to pick up where we left off, which is always in the same spot because we never really go anywhere. I do love him, but you can see why his behavior is just not conducive to me ever building a life with him.

3\. Trent Jones — Trent is the only dude I’ve dated that I met at con — Quest Con 13 (when it finally happened) to be exact. It went down like this — I was in the dealers’ room checking out some pieces of Mak’Tar calligraphy when some guy asked me if I needed help picking something out. I was confused because he clearly wasn’t the dealer (who was helping someone else), and I didn’t think he was working with the dealer since he wasn’t behind the table.

So brilliantly, I said, “Huh?”

“Well, I know some Mak’Tar,” he said. “I could translate those for you.”

“That’s nice of you,” I replied, “but I got this.”

I picked up a small piece of plastic covered cardstock with “ _Pesh les soren_ ” written on it in gold Mak’Tar script against a blue and purple background. There was a small gold symbol in the corner. It looked like a capital “V” with four lines radiating from the point at the bottom. I’m sure anyone who’s seen “Escape From Tev’Meck” knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“They mean the same thing, you know,” said the guy.

“As a matter of fact, I do know,” I said.

“Oh? What episode is it from?” he asked.

Oh god, I thought. He’s one of _those_.

“What does that matter?” I asked.

At that point another guy turned and said, “Jesus, Mike. Leave her alone.”

“I’m just trying to help her understand the lore,” said Mike. “She doesn’t have to be rude.”

Really? I didn’t know whether I should be pissed or amused at this guy. I was pissmused?

I took a nice, big breath, and in my Theatre Voice, and in a tone that suggested I might be lecturing a precocious eight-year-old, I said, “ _This_ little symbol is commonly called the BIP — an acronym meaning ‘Breath is prayer.’ The calligraphy says the same thing in Makian — _Pesh les soren_. Some think that it refers to the piety of the Mak’Tar, but a more nuanced translation might be, ‘where there is the breath of life, there is also a prayer of hope.’ The Mak’Tar call the symbol, ‘ _Ev pesh_ _’ek’_ or ‘ _Ev pesh_ _’ek dek_ _Warvan_ ’ — the inspiration of Warvan. The ‘V’ shape symbolizes Tor Zanna — the Valley of Blood where Warvan put the volvac sacs containing her sons, Grabthar and Ipthar, into her husband’s body. Though some think it has a deeper meaning — the ‘V’ being the V of Warvan’s legs as she birthed the sacs, making the Valley of Blood her womb, of course, but since there is no canon reference to that particular aspect of Mak’Tar anatomy, it’s all just speculation.”

I have found that one of the surest ways to shut a guy like this up is to be clear that you are insulting him, but use some words he doesn’t understand. If you really want to freak them out, mention crotch blood.

He turned an interesting shade of red, called me a stupid bitch, and left to a smattering of applause.

“Wow,” said the other guy. “I’d like to just—”

“—apologize for your asshole friend?” I asked.

“God, no. He’s supposedly an adult. He can apologize for himself, once the rest of us have made him do it. I’d like to congratulate you on the most impressive shutdown I have ever heard in all my years on this spinning ball of mud-covered molten iron. I bow to you, ma’am. My name is Trent Jones and I’d like to be your friend.”

“Trying to raise the class levels on your friend group?” I asked.

Trent looked at me seriously. “He really isn’t my friend. He’s a friend of a friend, and I keep hoping that my friend will dump his ass, or at least throw him out of our roleplaying group.”

I won’t deny that he was cute in his slouchy suit jacket and t-shirt, his black hair just a little too long. And he had a very sweet and playful smile. And he used “supposedly” correctly.

“Sorry, Trent. I had a little more anger than your… associate was willing to stick around for.” I held out my hand. “Mary Sue Forrester. It’s nice to meet you.”

He shook it. “Would some hot chocolate help? With the excess ire?”

“I don’t think it works that way, but I won’t say ‘no’ to hot chocolate.”

Trent took a deep breath.

“Do not start singing,” I interrupted.

He gave me a look of slightly overdramatic surprise. “How did you know?”

“You practically have ‘smartass’ tattooed on your forehead.”

So yeah, we were thick as thieves after that.

It turned out that Trent was moving to the Kalamazoo area that summer. He’d gotten a job teaching computer programming at the community college.

Of course we hung out, and of course that sort of turned into dating. So I had the discussion about how I’m poly and what that means and how I conduct romantic relationships, and Trent dropped his own disclaimer — he doesn’t like sex.

I took a deep breath and told the ghost of Jackson (wailing about how our love could have been pure, but oh no, all I cared about was his dick) to kindly fuck off. I managed a mostly calm and rational discussion, although at one point I did have to come clean about the ways my college boyfriend had attempted to make me hate sex, which led to a discussion about how Trent wasn’t _against_ sex, he just didn’t want to _have_ sex.

“It doesn’t gross me out,” he said. “I don’t feel sexual attraction, and I don’t actively want to have sex with anyone. I can… do enough to get the other person off. I even enjoy it in that way you enjoy doing something nice for someone you care about, but I’m pretty neutral about it, and I don’t orgasm during sex.”

It seems like it would be simple — just be friends — but it’s not. People who are romantically involved but not having sex are not “just friends” (a phrase I still frigging hate). And because of my past, it meant everything had to be negotiated. Kisses, hugs, hand-holding, bed-sharing, ass-grabbing, and scalp massages were a yes. Nipple-tweaking and handjobs (for me) were a once in a great while thing, as in, every once in a great while Trent would ask if he could get me off because (I strongly suspect) he just kind of liked knowing he had that privilege and could provide that pleasure, and he’d use his hand or my vibrator. I would have happily done the same for him, but he would rather not, so I didn’t. Intercourse was a hard no. Trent may have been able to perform, maybe even not have minded performing, but I just couldn’t go there with someone who’s only performing ever again.

You never just go to bed with the person you’re going to bed with.

Anyway, once we’d gotten over the hurdles of what was okay and what wasn’t, we had a really good relationship for years. We were close. We had fun. We played games together. We went places. We supported each other. We talked about anything and everything — except the pretty darn good sex I was having with Sean and Gunner.

And somehow, that one little thing that we weren’t talking about, became a big thing.

Suddenly there was tension if I spent a weekend with Sean or hung out with Gunner after his shift.

Suddenly Trent was weird about physical contact — one minute super snuggly and the next very formal and hands-off.

Suddenly he wanted to know if I’d still want to see my other dudes if he and I were having sex.

“I don’t see them to make up for whatever our relationship might lack,” I said.

“But if I wasn’t okay with you seeing them, you’d leave me.”

“I’m polyamorous, Trent,” I said. “I wouldn’t even have _started_ with you if you hadn’t been able to accept that.”

I don’t know if he realized that he was setting off my slut-shaming alarm bells or what, but he stopped that line of questioning.

It was obvious that he was struggling with how sex (or the lack of it) fit into our relationship, but I couldn’t figure out why it was suddenly a problem now when it hadn’t been a problem for four years.

So I finally asked him, “What’s eating you?” eating us, eating all the things we had together?

“I don’t know how to talk to you about this without sounding like your ex,” he said.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it if we don’t talk about this.”

But we didn’t talk about it.

We just spent less and less time together.

 

So that was my life leading up to that fateful Friday in June of ‘99. Five nights a week, I went to work and baked muffins and crusty rolls with _herbes de Provence_ and made endless fucking scones. I came home and went to bed, sometimes (then rarely) with Trent, always with Lola. I got up around four in the afternoon and ate breakfast while watching _Sailor Moon_. I spent time with one of my dudes, or cleaned my apartment, or did the grocery shopping — you get the idea. I did a little writing. And I surfed the web.

Well, I surfed the web after I’d checked my email, visited half a dozen (or more) fansites, and checked in at the various fora I belong to. Then I maybe had time to surf before work. Unless I got caught up in a chat, of course.

On the other hand, one of the things about being a nocturnal apartment dweller — you spend long hours of your nights off being quiet. It’s very conducive to discovering the wide world of fantastical porn. I don’t think there’s such a thing as a cryptid without its own fan club, if you know what I mean. Aliens, mythical monsters, gods — there’s someone out there who wants to fuck them all. Then there’s shape-shifter porn — and its close cousins, furry porn and Alpha/Beta/Omega porn. I was oddly comforted to know that speculation concerning what it’s like to ride some really weird dicks is far more universal than I had previously supposed.

I also got a lot of gaming in.

I was always an early adopter when it came to computers — or as early as I could afford to be. In 1982 I got a refurbished TRS-80 model III and a copy of Wordstar. It changed my life – or my writing life anyway. I hate writing longhand. I don’t like paying for endless typewriter ribbons and white-out, so I’m not too fond of writing that way either. And the truth is that’s just not how my brain works. My first few short stories required four or five composition books each, even though they were less that 10k words. I’d write a sentence, cross out a word, move some punctuation, caret in some words or phrases, cross some more stuff out, until it was such a mess that I had to rewrite the whole thing in order to read it. This created a whole ‘nother mess where there were maybe one or two actual sentences per page, making it weird and stilted and, in many cases, still impossible to read, so I’d have to copy _that_ into a new book — and so on and so forth. In the meantime, I actually hate the physical act of picking up a pen or (even worse) pencil and actually writing something. Bottom line – I’ve never written anything longhand since.

Before my job at the theater was downgraded, I bought a brand-new Amiga 500. That was clever of me, I must say. That Amiga saw me through the lean years.

I’m sure all of this makes me sound almost computer-savvy, but I’m not. For one thing, I have a terrible time remembering numbers. If I hadn’t kept plenty of notes throughout this whole adventure, I’d never have been able to tell you when anything happened. I had to constantly check the historical timeline Laliari included on the Palm just to know what the hell was going on in the world.

Anyway, when I bought the Amiga in ‘87, you just read up on the current models for a couple days and picked a fucking computer. It was a different story in 1994. Remembering how much RAM I want or which graphics processor will work best is an anxiety-ridden slog for me.

So I got Trent to help me build a new one.

“What do you want it to do?” he asked.

“Oh, you know — go online, run a word processing program… play some games,” I said.

“Uh-huh. What kind of games?”

“FRP’s”

“Fantasy role-playing games?”

“Yeah, you know. Like _Betrayal at Krondor_ or _Arena_ ,” I said.

“About how much money are you planning on spending?” he asked.

“Twelve-hundred?”

“You want a computer that will play _Arena_ for twelve-hundred.”

“You aren’t saying that in what I would call an encouraging manner,” I said.

Well, it may have cost a wee bit more than that, but I finally had a computer that could handle more than an online bulletin board and getting my email.

To be fair to the Amiga, I belonged to three separate mailing lists and a couple of newsgroups, so getting my email was a bit of a chore. Getting my email in the one hour of online time that I allotted myself each month, even more so. (I went over most months.)

But now I had a new computer, a bigger budget to spend on Internet hours, and I could go to GeoCities too, once there was a GeoCities to go to.

I mean, my eyeballs may never recover, but there’s soooo much fanfiction out there. Of course, the downside is that there’s soooo much fanfiction — and so little editing or curating or just plain old summarizing. You spend most of your time hunting through completely unorganized archives and webrings and following links in the hopes of finding that one gem in your chosen rarepair, only to find that they break up or one of them dies twenty pages in to make way for the author’s fave pair or the author just never finishes it. And after AOL went to a flat monthly rate, well, I may have become a hermit for a few weeks there. Gunner said I was having new relationship energy with the Web.

It was very, very easy to get caught up in fan activity online.

Some of the zines got their own websites. At first, most were just a page advertising the zine and what kind of content it had, where to get it, price, _et cetera_ — but some of them began publishing their old stories online as well. Cece decided to put the old stories from _Galactic Love_ online. Trent and I helped her with any stories she had in older digital formats. I still had both of my old computers and Trent had similar hoarding habits. We were able to get almost every story extracted from their three-and-a-half floppies, their five-and-a-quarter floppies, a surprising number of cassette tapes, even one ancient external hard drive that arrived with a sticky note that said, “I think it’s on this one. If you can get the others off it too, I’d really appreciate it.” Usually though, the difficult part wasn’t the physical format, it was the digital one. Until the entire universe decided to use WordPerfect or something that was compatible with WordPerfect, there were about a gajillion word processing programs out there, and most of them didn’t play nice with each other. A couple of times, I even took the train to Chicago so I could use Kami’s computer to read some old MacWrite documents. Trent came along on the second trip. All four of us stayed up late, talking and laughing and drinking beer.

We got most of the stories, though. The rest, including some really old ones that had never been digitally recorded, had to be typed, but Cece knew people who were much faster at that than me, so I was off the hook for that one.

I even set up my own GeoCities page for my stuff. I posted all of my old stories that were in defunct zines or zines that weren’t online, complete with summaries and a heads-up on the main pairing. I checked it every day to see if my counter had gone up.

“Sixteen hits today!”

“You know one of them’s you, checking your hits, right?” said Trent.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

No, I hadn’t known that.

I’d checked it four times.

And then there were the newsgroups and bulletin boards. In the old days, if you wanted to discuss a show or a fic, you had to write in to the zines, and wait weeks or months for your brilliant thoughts to be read, if they got read at all by anyone besides an editor who didn’t feel like printing them. The only other way was to go to cons or fan clubs. You know — places where people socialized and had actual face-to-face conversations.

Now we could exchange ideas in real time, any time, without even having to put on pants.

Too bad so many of those ideas were objectively awful.

Cece said she wasn’t really surprised. She’d always gotten lots of rage letters about how whatever the letter writer hated wasn’t canon/was totally out of character/was morally wrong.

“Like any of that matters,” she said. “They’re stories.”

But now fans had the ability to post their spittle-flecked diatribes on bulletin boards, or send them in emails, or gang up on someone in a chat room.

I got more than one nasty email from anti-slashers, especially after I put “All You Have To Do Is Fall In Love” online. Apparently, a few people remembered how I singlehandedly ruined fandom with background slash. I never responded to any of them. As far as I was concerned, the whole controversy was ancient history now.

In the late nineties, the new controversy (among the fans of erotic _Galaxy Quest_ romance anyway) was who you were “shipping.”

So the Tawny/Taggart fans and the Lazarus/Taggart fans had always had more than a little friction going. After all, there’s only so much Peter Quincy Taggart to go around, and triads hadn’t been invented yet, or something. I mean, whenever my polyamorous ass suggested that Tawny and Lazarus just play nice and share him, I was usually told to be serious.

The point is, the factions had always been a little less than friendly, and it didn’t help that in the Great Slash Purge of ‘85, the Quest Con Organizers decided that all erotica, regardless of orientation, needed to be banished from the con forever. (In practice, of course, it just got swept under the rug.)

Now the same thing was happening on newsgroups and web rings. So I got to watch the earlier drama play out again, with the big difference of just having a front-row seat rather than being center-stage.

Anyway, the two groups had been forced to band together when we were all just a bunch of dirty girls that no one wanted sullying their wholesome dealers’ room, but now that there was a new space to defend, they were dividing into hostile camps, and if you preferred to not get into the whole controversy, they’d assign you a camp. As someone who shipped Lazarus/Chen, I often got put in the Tawny/Taggart camp. As someone who wrote slash and stories where Tawny got paired with the hunk-of-the-week, the Tawny/Taggarts lumped me in with the Lazarus/Taggarts

The arguments went something like this — The Lazarus/Taggart camp saw Tawny/Taggart supporters as homophobes who only liked their pair because Tawny had a vagina, never mind that the more emotional scenes were between Lazarus and Taggart. The Tawny/Taggarters claimed that the Lazarus/Taggarters only cared about sex, and not about canon. I mean, neither pair was canon, but whatever. So the L/T’s pointed to “Escape From Tev’Meck” and “Friends Never Forget” as evidence to support their pair. The T/T’s came back with “Mists of Delos.” The L/T’s said that was just the mists drugging Taggart and that he’d make a play for a Mank’Nar snot-beast under its influence.

And the rest of us — the gen ficcers and the rarepair shippers were just sitting back, eating our Raisinettes and Sno-Caps and watching the show. Oh, once in awhile one of us would make some thoughtful comment on free speech and “ship and let ship,” but no one was in the mood to listen to us.

Then the T/T’s said that Lazarus was toxic and L/T’s were promoting unhealthy relationships.

Remember how I said that Lazarus was something of a patron saint of weirdos? A lot of us weirdos took umbrage at having aspersions cast on our favorite character. A shot taken at Lazarus, as far as we were concerned, was a shot taken at us.

And MadiFan27 fired one hell of a shot. In an overlong, poorly-spell-checked essay, she basically posited that Lazarus belittled Taggart with his constant assertions of being smarter than Taggart. I mean, he _is_ smarter than Taggart, but not according to MadiFan27, who stated that when Taggart himself said that Lazarus was smarter, it was just because Lazarus had eroded Taggart’s self-confidence with his constant “insults.” She said that Lazarus withheld affection from Taggart, and that his “out of control rages” were abusive and threatening to Taggart and everyone else on the _Protector_.

A bunch of the T/T’s wholeheartedly agreed. After all, it’s easier to take the moral high ground when you’re against abusive relationships than when you’re just against gay ones. Of course some of them loved Lazarus too and immediately started distancing themselves from the anti-Lazarus crew.

Then the L/T’s came back with what a stupid slut Tawny is.

Which all the sluts and Tawny fans on both sides found very offensive.

I wrote a brilliant piece on how Taggart’s just as much of a supercilious bastard as Lazarus and twice as slutty as Tawny, so maybe he shouldn’t be allowed in a relationship with anyone. That got about as much support as my triad idea.

That’s when the mean fics started.

L/T shipper, MakTar_Muse wrote a story where Taggart reads Tawny’s diary (because he wants to know why she’s been denying him sex, natch) and finds out she’s been cheating on him with multiple guys of multiple species, often at the same time. He goes to his good friend, Lazarus, with this info and Lazarus comforts him… with his dick, as Margot used to say. Then Lazarus goes to confront Tawny with her wrongdoings, which of course Taggart witnesses when he follows Lazarus. Tawny mocks Lazarus and Taggart with various homophobic slurs, then flies into a rage when Lazarus tells her that he and Taggart are in love and that he’s always loved Taggart but was willing to stay silent as long as he thought Taggart was happy with Tawny, but now Taggart had chosen him over Tawny. Tawny flies into a second rage and attacks Lazarus, and Taggart comes out of his hiding place and shoots her with his nebulizer, saving Lazarus, who “comforts” Taggart a second time.

A T/T shipper who went by the name of LtTawnyTaggart wrote a fic where Lazarus repeatedly abuses Taggart both emotionally and physically until Tawny finds out and tells Taggart that he needs to quit protecting Lazarus and hiding his behavior from the NSEA. Taggart says he needs Lazarus because Lazarus is so smart and Taggart is so stupid. Tawny convinces him that he really is smart and that Lazarus has just been cruelly brainwashing him this whole time so that Taggart would think he couldn’t function on his own. She confronts Lazarus with his sins whereupon Lazarus flies into a rage and hits Tawny, so Taggart (who witnesses this, of course) tells Lazarus he’s going to put him in the brig and turn him over for discipline at the nearest space station. Lazarus flies into an even bigger rage, rushes Taggart, knocks him out, then flees to the command deck, where he barricades himself and takes over the ship. Taggart heads to the secondary command deck and enters into a battle of wits with Lazarus for control of the ship, which he wins, of course. Then Lazarus kills himself, and Tawny consoles Taggart... with her vagina.

This one at least had the advantage of being funny on account of the writer making Lazarus sound like a walking thesaurus with only the slimmest grasp of how language works.

Best lines —

“You’ll never get away with this, Lazarus,” exclaimed Tawny.

“And who shall impede me, Lieutenant?” he sneered conceitedly. “You? A mundane female? Your presumptuousness regales me. Hah hah!”

These fics were just the opening salvos in an increasingly violent war with poor Taggart caught eternally in the crossfire — subjected to increasingly violent sex and violent violence followed by increasingly saccharine consolation nookie.

It got to the point where I was pretty sure that Laredo’s mom was the only healthy relationship he’d ever been in.

Eventually, both the entertainment value and the quantity of high dudgeon wore off. Lots of people were put off by what had essentially become an endless string of extreme whump/comfort fics. The sites and lists that harbored the remaining combatants lost pretty much everyone else.

But hey, at least we weren’t in one of those fandoms where the Powers That Be handed out “cease and desist” letters like cheap candy on Hallowe’en. We had that going for us.

By the time Trent and I went to Quest Con 17 in 1998, it was probably good for my mental health to remember that there was still a fandom that was blissfully ignorant of online shipping drama. This isn’t to say that most of the attendees weren’t coasting down the information super-highway, they were just stopping at other scenic outlooks, you know? I mean, they’d see ours in passing, and keep right on passing. My guess is that for every person that got turned onto fanfic by the Internet, there was another one who got turned off. But then, it never was for everyone.

And the Internet was definitely a gain for fandom in general.

Anyway, Quest Con 17 — Trent and I had attended every Quest Con together since we’d met at 13 — even the one in 1996 that they decided to rename “The Galactic Event” because it incorporated several smaller cons that were sort of fading out. He claimed I was more fun than his old roleplay group, although he usually spent plenty of time with them too. Trent and I had very different approaches to fanning — he was usually to be found in the game room playing tabletop games or attending lectures on quantum flux drives and particle cannons.

Whereas I was hanging with the fic writers and talking about the dearth of good synonyms for “penis.” And hearing Elliot Spiegel speak at the first con he’d ever agreed to do. (He was actually pretty sweet and funny, and surprisingly cool about fanfic considering that he’d gone on the record as being rather insulted by it back in the day.)

But Saturday night always found us both hanging out on the roof with Fred and Cece, and sometimes Shondra and Darius. Darius was set to have his first big show opening in Atlanta the following weekend though, so it was just the four of us that year.

It was a cool, clear night. You could almost make out a star or two. Cece had managed to bring up a huge bedspread, and we were all sprawled out on it, smoking and talking — me and Cece in the middle, with Fred and Trent on either side. Trent had just finished telling us a story about a couple of players who got into a huge fight over whether the Peraxis Wormhole was two or three hexes wide. This led to one player overturning a table and storming off, only to storm back a few minutes later to pick up his hand-painted replica of an Aldean Crystal Ship and his custom “crystal” dice.

We all had a giggle over that.

“So – Mary Sue,” said Fred. “Cece tells me you’ve finally written some smut.”

I almost dropped the joint Trent was passing to me.

“I’ll have you know, Fred Kwan,” I answered loftily, “that what I’ve written is a tender love scene that is an integral part of a beautiful romance.”

“Right.” Fred nodded solemnly. “That’s why Lazarus’s dick is a—”

“Spoilers!” shouted Cece. “I haven’t read it yet!”

“You haven’t?” said Fred. “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Our little girl has done us proud with her first foray into graphic hanky-panky.”

“Fre-ed.” I blushed as I passed the joint to Cece.

“What?” asked Fred. “I thought it was really good. Chen’s kind of adorable when he’s horny. So’s Lazarus, for that matter. And speaking as someone with experience at being a love-sick, eager idiot trying to navigate foreign genitals, I thought you captured the ordeal very well.”

“Wait,” said Cece. “Is it funny sex or good sex?”

“It’s good, funny sex,” said Fred. “You’ve read it, Trent. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” said Trent. “There’s definitely humor in the scene.”

“But not cringey humor?” asked Cece. “I hate being embarrassed for the characters.”

“No, nothing like that,” said Trent.

“No, no, no,” said Fred. “It’s not cringey. It’s really sweet and tender. They crack a few jokes to alleviate the tension, but it’s mostly… You know, they’re very vulnerable and open with each other, but they’re not characters who’re used to that. You can see how much they want to let go and trust each other, and when they do, it’s… obviously a meaningful experience for them. Mary Sue’s really captured that ‘something miraculous happened’ sort of feeling.”

I was blushing super hard at that.

In fact, I was trying not to cry.

Trent rolled over and put his hand on my arm.

“Thanks, Fred,” I said. “I’m really happy you like it. It was hard to write.”

Cece giggled. “Hard!”

“Girl, you are so high,” I said.

“On the roof,” she affirmed and giggled again.

I elbowed her in the ribs. “You know what I mean. It’s _difficult_ because you have to remember where everybody’s… appendages are, and describe the sensations, and try to convey their emotions too. It’s great when you can get it to come off—”

Giggles.

“I mean, it’s very satisfying—”

By now she had Fred going too.

“Oh fine!” I said. “Fuck you both!” But naturally, I was also giggling my ass off by then.

It took me a minute to realize that Trent wasn’t joining us.

 

 

***

 

 

Passionate Kisses

By Thalia Z.

 

_Step 1 — Declare your intent and petition for acceptance._

Shockingly, Vincent had done this. Lazarus was still trying to comprehend the reality of that action.

_Step 2 — Accept or decline the petition._

Lazarus had accepted — publicly.

_Step 3 — The participants should kiss to signify their willingness to engage in this ritual._

Also completed — also publicly — and much to Lazarus’s further surprise, it had been pleasurable.

_Step 4 — Speak your reasons for engaging in this ritual._

“You do realize that this ritual is meant to lead to marriage?” said Lazarus.

“Yeah,” said Vincent. “Then again, it might not. It’s sort of a test too, right?”

“It is a gauntlet designed to prevent hasty decisions.”

Their shifts were over and they were sitting on the bed in Lazarus’s quarters. It was the only piece of furniture there.

“Yeah, after only five years of working together, I’d hate to do anything hasty,” said Vincent.

“Why did you initiate a Mak’Tar ritual rather than a Human one?” asked Lazarus.

“Step 4? I thought you didn’t remember how this ritual goes.”

“Sha’ree didn’t put a passcode on the data crystal. I looked it up.”

“Honestly,” said Vincent, “I don’t know if I can tell you every reason. I wanted to get your attention, show you that I’m serious. I’m not used to feeling so… _much_ for someone. And I want this to work. I want us to work. A lot of this ritual seems designed to make two people closer, and we suck at that stuff, Lazarus. We’re just really bad. I don’t push, and you don’t pull. So this seemed like a good idea.”

Lazarus had expected something more formal, more formulaic. This halting confession was something only a Human would think was appropriate. And it touched him.

“It was cowardice that kept me from speaking earlier,” said Lazarus, opting also for a simple truth, “and it pierced me to see you hurt when I didn’t answer. If I had doubted the depth of my feeling for you, I could not help but acknowledge it then. If this is truly how you wish to proceed, then I can’t argue with your reasoning, but I think we should incorporate some Human customs as well.”

“I see,” said Vincent, smiling. “Well, if you don’t have anything better to do, I can show you the Human custom of making out.”

Making out apparently involved kissing with methods and in quantities that most Mak’Tar would find unsettlingly excessive.

Lazarus, to his surprise, found it utterly delightful.

 

_Step 5 — Take a meal together._

“We eat together all the time,” Vincent pointed out.

“I think it’s more in keeping with the spirit of the ritual that we dine in more private surroundings than the mess hall,” said Lazarus.

“This thing is sending us on a dinner date?”

“It would appear so.”

They ended up going to a restaurant on Epsilon Station when the _Protector_ docked there later that week. Tawny had recommended it — “It’s a little touristy, but the food is great.”

They even dressed up. Vincent wore grey — dark grey suit, charcoal zippered vest, light grey shirt. He’d gotten the outfit a few years ago. He briefly wondered as he was dressing if the whole monochromatic thing was still in style.

Lazarus wore his dress uniform.

“I should have opted for civilian clothing,” said Lazarus when he saw Vincent.

“You look fine,” said Vincent. “Purple suits you.”

It turned out that the food _was_ great. Vincent had the Chicken Tagine and Lazarus had Something That Thankfully Didn’t Move.

_Step 6 — Relate your history._

They decided to do step 6 at the same time. It seemed to be an easy one. They already knew each others’ life stories, mostly.

“So, just tell me something I don’t know yet,” said Vincent.

Lazarus took a drink of his water.

“I haven’t many memories of… my early childhood. However, I do recall my grandparents — my mother’s father and mother — taking me to the seaside once. We traveled by train, and the morning was terrible – cold and raining. I thought the outing would be miserable, but my grandmother said that the rain would wash the world clean and the seaside would be warm and sunny when we arrived. She was correct, or at least, the meteorological report that morning was accurate.

“It was bright and there were a hundred other children there. We all stripped off our clothes and ran through the surf, chasing each other. We searched for treasures. We sculpted shapes in the sand. The adults sat on blankets, watching our antics, scooping us up if we got hurt. There was a vendor with ice cream.

“For months, I tried to place the scent that had led me to nest in your quarters. I believe that it was that day — the sea and rain, the sun-warm sand, the cold sweets.”

“You smelled all that in my quarters?” asked Vincent.

Lazarus smiled. “It was a trick of my mind, of course. My subconscious was simply informing me that I’d found a suitable situation by dredging up that scent memory.”

“So it doesn’t smell like that anymore?” He felt a little disappointed that his quarters had somehow lost their magic.

“No. There’s still a scent, but it has shifted. It remains decidedly pleasing, however.” He picked up his glass and took another swallow.

“My grandpa used to take me to the beach sometimes,” said Vincent.

“You’ve never mentioned your grandparents,” Lazarus prompted.

“Most of them died before I was born. I was kind of a late surprise. All of my sisters but one had already left home.

“Anyway, Grandpa would take me to a lot of places — the beach, the park, the library. I think he wanted to make sure I was getting out, not just sitting around the house building little contraptions and messing around on my computer. My parents had gone back to work full-time so he would come over in the afternoon a few days a week to watch me.

“He always expected a report on what I’d been up to. I’d save up stories for him. I don’t think I ever shut up when he was around.”

Vincent shook his head, thinking how weird it was that he had gone from being that talkative little kid to someone who most people described as a “good listener.”

“You were fond of him,” said Lazarus.

“Yeah, of course. He was my grandpa. It was a shock to me when he was just suddenly gone. I was nine. I’d never known someone who’d died.”

Good one, thought Vincent. Bring up dead relatives to the guy who lost his entire world at the age of five. You’re an excellent date.

Vincent cleared his throat. “Did I ever tell you that I was an artists’ model in college?”

“What’s an artists’ model?” asked Lazarus, thankfully allowing the change of subject.

“You don’t know? You went to college on Earth.”

“I wasn’t a Humanities student.”

“Yeah, neither was I,” said Vincent. “Artists’ models pose nude for the students so that they can learn to draw the structures of the body.”

“And you did this? Posed nude for a classroom of art students?” asked Lazarus.

“Yeah,” said Vincent. “Why the surprise?”

“You were quite modest when we cohabited.”

“You weren’t learning to draw the human body. Actually, nudity doesn’t bother me. I was mostly covering up for your sake.”

“Did you tell me this story so that I would imagine you naked?” asked Lazarus.

“Is it working?”

 

_Step 7 — Make something together._

“Well,” said Vincent, “we made that Time-Extractor Pod together, and there was the Interface Module for the Gdonkian bio-computer, and the serum that we created to battle the Phyllactan Micro-bot infection…”

“Right,” said Lazarus. “We can mark that one ‘complete.’”

 

_Step 8 — Sleep together._

“Is that a euphemistic ‘sleep together’ or a literal ‘sleep together?’” asked Vincent. They were in Vincent’s quarters. Lazarus was there to ask Vincent if he’d like to fulfill the next step of the ritual tonight.

“Why in Grabthar’s name would ‘sleep together’ be a euphemism?” asked Lazarus. “For what?”

“Sex.”

“Wait. When Humans say ‘sleep together,’ they mean ‘engage in sexual congress?’”

“Usually,” said Vincent.

“Well, that certainly explains quite a few things.”

“So this is a bed-sharing situation,” said Vincent.

“You sound disappointed. Do you prefer to sleep alone?” Lazarus sincerely hoped that Vincent didn’t prefer that. He wanted to share a bed with him. He spent his nights holding Vincent’s old body pillow and trying to remember the now-faded scent of it.

“No, it’s not that. Sleeping with you sounds wonderful, as a matter of fact. I’d just like to… have sex with you too”

“I should hope you do.” Lazarus was, in fact, elated. Sex was something that he had forgone with no regret when he had chosen the life of an ascetic. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel attraction or desire. It was just that the act itself had proven to be… unfulfilling, actually.

But he doubted that it would be unfulfilling with Vincent, if their amorous activities up until now were any indication. For the first time that he could remember, he found himself yearning for more.

“When does that happen?” asked Vincent.

“When we choose for it to happen,” said Lazarus. “Were you expecting that the ritual would prescribe it?”

“Basically. But you’re saying we could be fooling around at any time?”

“My apologies. I thought that you were aware of this. Humans have a wide range of when they consider such activity acceptable. It was my understanding that they often wish to defer sex when they are in a more emotionally engaged relationship.”

“You thought I wanted to take it slow because I… care for you.”

“Yes.” He kissed Vincent lightly, gently, and (he hoped) reassuringly. “I’ve been refraining from initiating greater physical intimacy as well, expecting that you would take the lead as you’re more experienced in these matters than I.”

“When you didn’t seem interested in moving beyond kissing… I guess I figured we had to wait until this step of the ritual.”

“I seemed uninterested?” Lazarus closed his eyes, and rubbed the spot on his forehead between them. “Yes, of course I did.” He sighed. “Vincent, I’ve been an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry about what?” asked Vincent.

“It didn’t occur to me that you were finding my signals opaque, even though I find Human sexual signals to be confusing, at best. Ironically enough, when I thought that I stood no chance of ever securing your affection, I was worried that Sha’ree’s cursed data crystal might include some scholarly article on the mechanics of Mak’Tar arousal. I feared what would happen if you ever learned how to see the effect you have on me, and now that I wish to communicate my desires, I’ve neglected to show you.”

“Okay, so... show me now.”

Lazarus sat on the edge of the little table, turned his head, and pointed to the series of fluted ridges above his ear. “These are vestigial gills, leftovers from an aquatic ancestor.” He turned back to Vincent. “Now, kiss me.”

Vincent stood between Lazarus’s knees and pressed his lips to Lazarus’s. Lazarus let the kiss turn passionate in what he thought of now as the “Human style” — all slick tongues and teeth biting lips and suction. (If Mak’Tar ever kissed like this, Lazarus was unaware of it.) Lazarus buried his fingers in Vincent’s hair for good measure, knowing that the softness and scent and novelty of the sensation would arouse him even further. When the need for air finally drove him to break the kiss, he leaned his forehead against Vincent’s.

“Like you,” he said, still breathing heavily, “Mak’Tar need more oxygen when we’re aroused.” He pointed to his gill ridges. “And these silly things think they can still provide that.” He turned his head and let Vincent see how they had darkened from a faint periwinkle to lavender, and how they were fluttering. “Granted, other stimuli will cause a similar reaction, but I think you can assess the context on your own.”

Vincent raised his hand and touched the area. “They’re warm.”

“Yes, that’s the other thing. Humans can’t see it because it’s too far into the infra-red part of the spectrum, but it’s glowing.”

“You literally glow when you’re turned on?” Vincent appeared to be vastly amused at this.

“Yes. You can see why I find such signifiers as dilated pupils or a slight flaring of the nostrils to be a bit subtle.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Anything else?” asked Vincent.

“There are other areas that glow as well,” said Lazarus. It was oddly arousing to be speaking of such matters. Mak’Tar usually talked about sex very infrequently and only in the driest of terms. This was a lesson for prepubescent children, not something one discussed with one’s breathlessly curious adult… suitor.

“What else then?”

Lazarus swallowed. “The spinal ridge.”

“Ah,” said Vincent. He reached out and unzipped Lazarus’s jacket — unhurriedly, deliberately, allowing Lazarus time to stop him if he wanted. Lazarus felt Vincent’s hands slide along his ribs until they met in the back over his sensitive ridge. Vincent stroked down, slow and firm, until he reached the top of Lazarus’s pants, then back up. “It’s also very warm.”

“Mm-hm,” was all Lazarus could manage.

“Anything else?” Vincent’s voice was soft and low, his mouth just a few centimeters from Lazarus’s ear.

“Well,” said Lazarus, placing his hands on Vincent’s hips and letting them slip back until he was grasping Vincent’s behind. He moved slowly, also giving Vincent the opportunity to halt the proceedings. He pulled Vincent’s hips closer until their groins were firmly pressed together. “This too.”

“They glow?”

“Just the tips,” said Lazarus, kissing Vincent again. This was luxury and gratification of the highest order, Lazarus decided. To have his tongue in Vincent’s mouth and his hands on Vincent’s backside, to be pressed up against all this warm living flesh — it was unbelievably good and right and lovely.

“I didn’t expect it to be this big,” said Lazarus, rolling his hips a little so that Vincent couldn’t make a mistake as to what he was referring. “Or firm.”

Vincent’s head fell forward onto Lazarus’s shoulder. “Lazarus, you’re going to kill me.”

“Our watch begins in twenty minutes,” Lazarus reminded him.

“It won’t take twenty minutes to kill me,” said Vincent.

Lazarus chuckled. “Call me sentimental — I’d like to take my time with this.”

Vincent, his head still on Lazarus’s shoulder, nodded and groaned a little. He looked up. “You’re sentimental, but also right.”

Lazarus stroked Vincent’s cheek. “You’ll sleep with me tonight?”

Vincent smiled. “I’d love to.”

“My quarters? After dinner? 1900?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

By 1900, they had given up on the Surface Pod. The engine was beyond repair and the wind was picking up. Sensors indicated that the dust storm could produce winds of up to 115 km/hour. With the gravity stabilizers offline in the tiny craft, Taggart decided the team would be better off in a nearby cave. They grabbed the emergency kits and headed for the shelter.

Once out of the wind, the security team heated a couple of rocks with their ion nebulizers. Taggart dug out some emergency rations, and they set up camp. Lazarus silently zipped his and Vincent’s sleeping bags together. Dinner was something purporting to be lasagna, washed down with stale water. With nothing else to do, everyone turned in early.

Vincent was the last one to lie down. He crawled in next to Lazarus and stuffed his rolled-up jacket under his head for a pillow. He snuggled back into Lazarus’s warm body.

“This isn’t what I had in mind,” he whispered.

“Nor I,” whispered Lazarus, putting an arm around Vincent and holding him tight. “But you’re in my arms, and that’s far more than I had last night.”

 

_Step 9 — Prepare a meal together._

On the third day of The Storm That Apparently Never Ends, one of the security detail managed to kill a couple of small, nutritionally valuable animals that made their home in the cave system. Lazarus, as the person with the most experience at dissection, had cut them into chunks, and Vincent was threading those chunks onto a makeshift skewer.

“This is not what I had in mind,” said Vincent.

 

_Step 10 — Solve a problem together._

“This is not exactly what I had in mind,” said Lazarus, “but I suppose it meets the criteria.”

“Hand me the sonic socket wrench, will you?” Vincent glanced at Lazarus. “It’s the third from the right.”

Vincent was lying on his side under the main navigation console of the Surface Pod. His hair was greasy from being unwashed for five days, and he was pretty sure that every square centimeter of his skin was covered in grit kicked up from the storm.

“Thanks,” he said as he took the tool. “You were hoping for something more glamorous?”

“I was certainly envisioning something in which I took a more active role,” said Lazarus.

By day four, Vincent had managed to rig the gravity stabilizers to use an ion nebulizer as an energy source. He then reversed the polarity on them so that the entire craft could be lifted and moved into one of the larger caves. Once out of the storm, he had begun work on the engine. Nothing was ever beyond repair in Vincent’s book.

“If we can get this thing running,” he told Taggart and Lazarus, “we can leave during a lull. They’re too unpredictable and don’t last long enough for the ship to send another Pod down to get us, but it would only take a few seconds for us to get above the storm.”

He and Lazarus had been working on the Pod for 26 hours now, with short breaks to nap.

“Well, this isn’t the first time we’ve done something like this,” said Vincent. “And it won’t be the last. Next time I’ll hand you tools — eyedroppers and petri dishes or something.” He wriggled out from under the console. “I think we already knew that we work well together.”

He reached a hand up to the console and flipped a switch. The engine hummed smoothly to life.

 

_Step 11 — Name something that frustrates you._

Once they were back aboard the _Protector_ , Vincent took his bone-weary and filthy self directly to his shower. He ran the longest cycle twice even though the computer complained at length about his wastefulness. He’d missed six showers and was in no mood for a guilt trip from a machine. He was just spreading his blanket over the couch when the door chimed.

“Enter,” said Vincent.

It was Lazarus, also divested of two kilos’ worth of Planet Hell-Storm.

“May I sleep here?” he asked.

“Of course.” Vincent smiled and picked up the blanket.

“You were intending to sleep on the couch?”

“I uhm… haven’t slept in the bed,” said Vincent. “It feels too big.”

“I’ve become quite adept at sprawling, if you require minimal space in order to feel cozy.”

“You’ve been making me plenty cozy for almost a week now,” said Vincent, spreading the blanket over the bed.

He climbed in and curled himself around his body pillow. Lazarus climbed in and curled himself around Vincent. Vincent touched the lamp off, and they both fell immediately asleep.

When Vincent awoke, he was facing Lazarus. Their legs were tangled together, Vincent’s arm was thrown over Lazarus’s waist, his hand resting against the warm ridge of his spine, and Lazarus was holding him. They were pressed too tightly together for Vincent’s arousal to be anything but immediately apparent.

“You’ve no idea what it is costing me not to move,” said Lazarus, early-morning rustiness rendering his voice even deeper and slower than usual.

The sound shot down Vincent’s spine, causing his cock to jerk helplessly.

“Sweet Ipthar,” Lazarus whispered

Vincent felt the heat radiating from Lazarus’s ridge.

“Tell me you don’t have a shift today,” said Vincent as he gathered up the soft fabric of Lazarus’s undershirt until he reached warm, bare skin.

“I don’t have a… hnnn…” Vincent had worked his fingers into Lazarus’s pajama pants and was stroking circles into the widest part of his ridge.

Lazarus pushed Vincent back into the bed, kissing his mouth, his jaw, his neck — biting and sucking at the muscle between his neck and shoulder. Vincent could feel rhythmic, deliberate movement against his cock. He pulled Lazarus tighter against himself.

Out by the sofa, his vox chimed.

Three quick tones.

The commander.

“Fuck,” said Vincent. His vox chimed again, and Lazarus rolled off him with a groan of such pure frustration that Vincent was sure rocks would weep in commiseration. He got up and answered it.

“Chen here.”

“Chen. God, I’m sorry about this,” said Taggart.

That makes three of us, thought Vincent, glancing over his shoulder at Lazarus.

“Listen, I know you guys are… I mean it’s been a long week, right? Well anyway, I hate to interrupt you, but Admiral Singh wants to debrief you personally about the last mission, like right now.”

“Just me, or Dr. Lazarus too?”

“Just you. He’s very impressed with the report I sent him. Wants to hear from you about how you came up with that trick with the gravity stabilizers. Won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I told him you were up for nearly 30 hours straight, and you were probably still asleep, but he really wants to talk to you before he has some meeting this morning.”

“I’ll be right there,” said Vincent.

“Ten minutes?”

“Fifteen.” He needed a cold shower.

“Okay,” said Taggart. “See you then. Taggart out.”

 

_Step 12 — Plan a gift._

Lazarus found Vincent directing the controlled chaos in the engine room.

“Sorry, Lazarus. Somehow, with everything else going on, it slipped my mind that we’re scheduled to dock at Gamma Station today for upgrades. The commander doesn’t want to miss our berth, and I don’t blame him. We’ll be waiting over a month for another one.”

“Yes,” said Lazarus. “I was also momentarily unaware of today’s schedule.” He paused, as the reason for his distraction attempted to suppress a grin. “I met with Peter a moment ago. I recommended that anyone involved in the recent mission be granted three days shore leave while the _Protector_ is in dock.”

“I’d love that, but the upgrades…” said Vincent.

“Are mostly to the main barracks and the mess hall,” said Lazarus. “The steward and the mess sergeant are perfectly capable of handling it. You can take care of the few items under your purview after you’ve had some R&R.”

“They’re installing a new ion flow regulator in the beryllium sphere chamber.”

“I had Lt. Madison contact the dockmaster. She said they’ve installed hundreds of them now and it requires but an hour to accomplish. She had no problem scheduling it for the end of our stay.”

Lazarus lowered his voice.

“Lt. Madison was also kind enough to secure us a room in a hotel on Gamma Station,” he said. “They have suites in one of the smaller observation domes. She knows the owner.”

Vincent hesitated for a moment longer, then said, “It sounds wonderful, Lazarus. Thank you.”

Lazarus gave Vincent one of his small, crooked smiles, then started toward the corridor. Over his shoulder he said, “1500. Shuttleport B, Sergeant.”

“I’ll be there, Doctor.”

The room was as spectacular as Tawny had said it would be. It was located high in the dome and near the edge so that the transparent ceiling curved down and transitioned into the widest wall in the wedge-shaped room. It was decorated simply in black and cool neutral colors to complement rather than compete with the view.

The sea-blue disk of Colter IV currently filled half of that view. Two of its moons were also visible — tiny red Ethos was floating a few degrees north of the equator, while the grey pitted surface of Praxis was just disappearing beyond the edge of the dome.

Lazarus dropped their bags on the luggage rack near the entrance and pulled Vincent into an embrace before the room’s computer could even finish its welcome spiel.

The view would still be there later.

“You look good in civilian clothes,” said Vincent between kisses. Lazarus was wearing a dark brown Mak’Tar _sennes_ along with the wide-legged pants of a warrior.

“Your approval is gratifying,” said Lazarus. “Now help me out of them before I utterly lose my nerve.”

“Anxious?”

“In every sense of the word.” Lazarus took Vincent’s face in his hands, and kissed him again. “I want you.” Another kiss. “I’ve wanted you for weeks,” kiss, “months, really. I want your scent on my skin.” Kiss. “I want to touch and kiss you.” Kiss. “I want to hear those soft cries you make when you’re aroused.” More kisses. “I want to know what sounds you make as you come to crisis. And I have only the vaguest notions of how we’re to accomplish that.”

Vincent closed his eyes for a moment. “Well, when you put it that way…” He twisted his hand in the trailing end of the flat tie on Lazarus’s right shoulder and pulled, watching the single-loop bow disappear. He folded the front of the jacket back and tugged the smaller inner tie loose as well. He set his mouth to Lazarus’s collar bone and briefly tasted the skin there. “This can’t be nearly as complicated as the Phyllacton micro-bots, right?”

“Right.” Lazarus relaxed a little. He wasn’t alone in this, after all. They had managed to combine their disparate skill sets successfully in the past. They could do so again now.

Vincent, as a matter of fact, seemed to already be making progress.

“You don’t wear anything under this?” Vincent’s hands stroked down Lazarus’s chest to his stomach.

“Mmm. It’s not strictly necessary, and I was dressing quickly.”

“Did you leave anything else off?” asked Vincent, stepping behind Lazarus and pulling the coat from his shoulders. He planted a quick kiss on Lazarus’s spinal ridge before laying the jacket across a nearby chair.

“Yes,” said Lazarus, his breath catching slightly.

“I see.” Vincent came back and stood behind Lazarus. He placed his hands on the thick ties at Lazarus’s hips. “Are you planning on keeping your shoes on?”

Lazarus kicked off the soft indoor boots he was wearing.

Vincent made no move to untie Lazarus’s pants. He merely let his hands rest on the knots while he continued placing cool, wet kisses down Lazarus’s heated spine. His thumbs stroked the edge of the ridge where it widened at the small of Lazarus’s back, sending pleasure vibrating up his spine. Vincent knelt and brushed his lips over the center of that spot. “So warm,” he said, and his breath ghosted cool against Lazarus’s sensitive skin.

Lazarus made some low, inarticulate sound.

Vincent licked the spot and then blew air over it.

Lazarus made the same noise, a little louder this time. He could feel Vincent tugging on the ties at his hips, loosening them.

“How do you keep this stuff on in a fight?” asked Vincent.

“Obviously I don’t tie them in a mooring hitch when going into battle,” said Lazarus.

He expected Vincent to let the pants fall to the floor, but instead he continued to hold the ties, lowering the garment just far enough to reveal where Lazarus’s spinal ridge tapered into the cleft of Lazarus’s buttocks. Vincent gave the tip one last open-mouthed kiss before standing up.

Then he let go of the ties, allowing the pants to pool on the floor before he came back around to Lazarus’s front and kissed him on the mouth.

Lazarus felt the wool of Vincent’s suit and the soft cotton of his shirt against his skin. It was novel, this sensation of someone else’s clothes pressed against his bare flesh.

“I have only second-hand knowledge of your species’ sexual habits, but I believe nudity for all participants is customary,” said Lazarus.

“We can save the fancy stuff for later?” Vincent smiled, and, skimming his hands down Lazarus’s back, he kissed him one more time before stepping back and toeing off his own shoes. He removed his midnight blue jacket and tossed it over the chair, covering Lazarus’s. Lazarus bent and retrieved his pants from the floor. He added them to the pile a moment before Vincent’s shirt landed there. Vincent was busy with his belt and the button on his pants when Lazarus’s gaze returned to him.

It seemed significant to Lazarus — this moment before Vincent removed the remainder of his clothing. He wondered if there would be a time when it seemed mundane to watch Vincent remove his pants. He hoped so, and, by the same token, he hoped not.

Vincent laid his pants and underwear on top of the other clothing, and turning, caught Lazarus’s gaze. They stood there, a couple meters apart, just looking. Just noting the differences, thought Lazarus. Vincent’s skin was slightly darker than his own and warmer in tone. Black hair formed patterns on that skin — across his chest, on his forearms and legs, at his armpits and groin. Of course, Vincent didn’t have a pouch, of course, nor any of the body parts that, on a Mak’Tar, would now be glowing with arousal.

But he did have a penis.

And that was _clearly_ indicating arousal. There was no way that Vincent could have hidden that much genitalia beneath an NSEA uniform. However, from the fact that it still hung over the sac containing his testicles, Lazarus surmised that it could become larger and harder still. The thought made him swallow.

“Not too alien, I hope,” said Vincent.

Lazarus shook his head slowly. “I think, whatever the differences in our two species, it’s clear that our bodies are responding to each other quite favorably,” he said.

Vincent moved closer to Lazarus. “You know, I’d tell you that you need to work on your bedroom talk, but with your voice, you could recite the ship’s Crew Directory and it would still be sexy as hell.”

Vincent took Lazarus’s hands in his own, interlocking their fingers. There was only the barest sliver of air between their bodies now. Lazarus looked down.

“May I…” he licked his lips. “May I touch your penis?”

Vincent made a sort of gasping/snorting noise. “You may, if you promise to call it a cock.”

“Cock?”

“It’s um… more inspiring.” Vincent was definitely breaking into laughter now.

Lazarus unspiraled his upper left ancillary tentacle from his genital bundle and wound it around Vincent’s… cock.

It lay warm and heavy against the shaft of his tentacle, cooler against the glowing tip. He could feel the steady beat of Vincent’s heart pushing more blood into it, pressing it into his grasp. Experimentally, he stroked the soft skin of it.

“Oh!” Vincent drew a sharp breath. “Oh, that’s… I didn’t realize you’d be so nimble with them. Or um… strong.”

“I do train them,” said Lazarus, unwinding the upper right tentacle and wrapping it around the base of Vincent’s cock under his testicles.

“Yeah, you mentioned that once.” Vincent leaned his head into Lazarus’s shoulder and looked down between their bodies at what he was doing.

Lazarus ran the tip of his lower left tentacle along the underside of Vincent’s cock, pausing to explore the little vee partially bisecting the head.

“Mmf,” said Vincent, putting a hand on Lazarus’s shoulder.

This was all very different from what Lazarus was used to, if one could call oneself acclimated to an activity one had only experienced a handful of times. Vincent’s penis didn’t grasp or stroke back, though it could hardly be considered inert.

Lazarus used the lower left tentacle to caress Vincent’s testicles. “Do you have a preferred designation for these?” he asked.

Vincent swayed slightly and clutched Lazarus’s shoulder. “They’re um… usually called ‘balls’ when you’re being informal. If you promise to keep that up, though, I’ll let you call them Statler and Waldorf if it makes you happy.”

“Your rather gratifying responsiveness makes me happy.”

“Lazarus?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we do this on the bed? I can be even more responsive when I’m not concentrating on staying upright.”

Lazarus tilted Vincent’s chin up and kissed him as he let go of his cock.

Vincent went to the bed and yanked back the covers.

Lazarus noted that Vincent’s cock was now standing out from his body and… bobbing a bit. It was a curiously attractive organ despite having only one trick. It certainly wasn’t subtle or demure, but he liked how enthusiastic it seemed.

Sweet Ipthar. He was becoming attached to the thing, like it was a pet he was considering adopting.

He knelt next to Vincent on the bed. Vincent, rather than kneel near Lazarus, lay down on his side and curved his body around Lazarus so that his upper torso was close to Lazarus’s lap. He propped his head on his hand. Lazarus wondered how he was supposed to reach Vincent’s cock with a tentacle that was only 25 centimeters long, but apparently Vincent was more interested in familiarizing himself with them at the moment.

“They look like a seashell when they’re all wound together and curled up like that,” said Vincent.

Lazarus regarded his tentacles in their bundle. “They do rather resemble a nautilid.” He straightened the bundle, then unwound the four ancillary tentacles from around the larger main tentacle. “The bundle keeps them tidy and protects the more sensitive main tentacle. Keeping them curled under also protects my testes which are located along the underside of the two lower tentacles. And are you even listening?”

“Oh, I’m definitely listening,” said Vincent. He skimmed his hand over Lazarus’s flank and let it hover above the main tentacle. “May I?”

“Of course you may,” said Lazarus feeling as if every scrap of his consciousness was focused on that hand as Vincent wrapped it around his tentacle and stroked.

Vincent was careful at first, touching it as he did any unfamiliar and possibly delicate mechanism, but gradually he became more adventurous as he gained confidence. It was another novel sensation. Lazarus had never felt hands other than his own on his tentacles. Mak’Tar stimulated each other’s tentacles with their own tentacles. Vincent’s fingers were about the same thickness as an ancillary tentacle, but the similarities ended there. Fingers were shorter and not as flexible. Still, it was very pleasant.

Exceedingly pleasant.

“Do you have a preferred designation for this?” Vincent asked.

“Tentacle.”

“That’s… very appropriate.” He laid his head in Lazarus’s lap, and Lazarus couldn’t resist touching his hair with the two closest tentacles.

“May I use my mouth?” asked Vincent.

Mouth? Humans did that. Of course they did. Lazarus had read about it. That could be… interesting, if a bit inelegant.

Lazarus nodded.

Vincent licked a long stripe up the underside of the lower left tentacle, right over the slight swelling of Lazarus’s gonad.

That was _not_ what Lazarus had expected.

Not that he’d really known what to expect — his knowledge of such activities being strictly theoretical.

But Vincent seemed to like getting his mouth on Lazarus, and Lazarus had to admit that he found the sensation of saliva cooling his skin to be far more delightful than he’d have predicted.

Vincent took the tip into his mouth. He caressed it with his tongue just as he caressed Lazarus’s tongue when they kissed.

It felt almost the same as touching the tentacle of another Mak’Tar — understandably since they were composed of similar muscle tissues. This was much wetter, of course, and cooler because of the difference in their body temperatures. And Lazarus was beginning to lose his train of thought. Amid all of the sensations that he could enumerate and explain were others that had no explanation — they just _were_. This felt intimate. It felt like trust and affection. Lazarus felt simultaneously vulnerable and safe. He felt wanted. Cared for.

Vincent released the ancillary tentacle to nuzzle the main one. “Good?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Lazarus, stroking Vincent’s hair.

“And this?” asked Vincent, licking the main tentacle as well.

“Yes.”

“How about this?” Vincent held the tentacle around its base, then took as much of the rest of it into his mouth as he could. Because this tentacle didn’t emit infra-red light like the others, Vincent’s mouth felt comparatively warm around it.

And that warm mouth was engulfing him. Taking him _in_.

Vincent applied suction as he drew his mouth slowly and smoothly back up the shaft until only the tip lay against his tongue. He licked and fondled it for a few moments before moving down again and surrounding nearly the entire tentacle.

Lazarus tried to answer the question — some part of his brain was aware that Vincent enjoyed hearing him talk and that hearing him talk about this would be particularly pleasurable.

But he was _in_ and snug and _wet_ for Grabthar’s sake. According to the educational materials he’d been given as a child and from his own limited experience, Mak’Tar twined, they touched and stroked, but anything wet and _engulfing_ was strictly part of procreative sex and this was not that. Procreative sex was something Lazarus expected to engage in only once in his lifetime, if that. He dreaded the very idea, and he knew that his antipathy was not uncommon.

But this… this was… this was… Well, it was incredibly _good_ was what it was. It should have been revolting. Vincent’s saliva had worked its way under his fist, and from the way he was smearing it around the base of Lazarus’s tentacle, he was pretty sure that was intentional.

This was undignified and sloppy and _glorious_.

“It’s wet,” was all Lazarus could manage to say.

Vincent snorted around his mouthful of tentacle. He pulled his off it.

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, I am aware of how Humans engage in sex,” said Lazarus just a little testily, “and that a certain amount of liquid is considered desirable. I wasn’t quite prepared for the quantities involved, though.”

“But you like it,” said Vincent, still lazily stroking Lazarus’s slippery main tentacle.

“Yes, I like it.”

Vincent sat up and kissed him. “Wait right here.” He went over to his bag and retrieved a small black tube. Then he went into the bathroom and came back with a hand towel. He tossed the towel on the bed and sat down beside Lazarus.

“A lubricant,” he said. “I brought it along in case we wanted to… use it.”

“You’re admirably prepared,” said Lazarus.

“You don’t know the half of it,” said Vincent. “Anyway, you want to try?” He held up the tube.

“Yes.”

Vincent grinned. He snapped open the lid and squeezed a generous quantity onto his palm.

“Ready?” he asked, closing the bottle and tossing it aside.

Lazarus reclined on the bed, leaning back on his elbows.

“Ready.”

“Sorry if it’s cold,” said Vincent.

It was a bit cold.

It was also slippery and messy and it felt outstanding.

Vincent’s hands grasped and squeezed and slicked and stroked. And Lazarus sought those hands with his tentacles, winding them around Vincent’s wrists, stroking his palms and fingers.

In an instant, he felt as though he were unraveling, coming apart. He could hear his own rough breath, heard himself whispering “yes” and “please.”

He was close.

He didn’t want to go over alone.

Lazarus picked up the lube. “You too,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Your cock, Vincent. I want that too.”

The cock in question jumped like it had heard its name. Vincent immediately held out his hand and Lazarus squirted a portion of lube into it.

Vincent slicked himself, holding Lazarus’s gaze. He straddled Lazarus.

Offering himself to be wanted. Cared for.

Lazarus forgot how to breathe. This would change them. This vulnerability. This was what would alter their lives.

Somehow, his lungs pulled in breath. He wound his main tentacle around Vincent’s cock and sat up. He wound his arms around Vincent, and pulled him tight against himself.

Lazarus folded his legs, forcing Vincent’s legs wider as he settled into Lazarus’s lap.

They were twined and touching and wet and messy.

And they were kissing.

Lazarus’s hands were in Vincent’s hair and Vincent’s still-lubed hands were on as much of Lazarus’s spinal ridge as he could reach.

And Lazarus was stroking whatever he could reach with his ancillary tentacles — Vincent’s inner thighs, his balls, the seamed area just behind them whose name escaped Lazarus at the moment — and anything that earned him more of those pleading cries.

And then his tentacle stroked across Vincent’s hole.

And Vincent _whined_ into Lazarus’s mouth.

Lazarus pulled back enough to look into Vincent’s eyes. “Yes? This?” He stroked the opening again.

“Please… I mean, if you want…”

In. Vincent was inviting him in. Wanted him if he wanted.

“I do… I have no idea how to proceed, however.”

“Keep doing that. God, it’s so warm.”

Lazarus kept rubbing, testing the opening every now and then with the tip, until he felt it loosen and relax.

“Now?” he asked.

Vincent nodded. “Yeah, start small and go slow.”

Lazarus pointed the tip of his tentacle and pressed. In.

Enveloped.

Past the tight rim was soft and smooth and enveloping.

“Oh god. Lazarus.” Vincent’s hips began a slow rocking motion, sending his cock gliding through the coils of Lazarus’s main tentacle, sending the smaller tentacle gliding in and out of his body.

Tangled and stroking and wet and snug.

“Another one… please.”

And Lazarus complied — pressed and wriggled a second tentacle up beside the first. How could he not? With the unflappable Sergeant Chen rocking and pleading and naked in his lap?

Lazarus would have given him anything he asked for.

Vincent stroked his spinal ridge, now covered in sweat and lube and it was all so… erotic, unexpected, inelegant, and _good_.

“I… I’m…” Lazarus never finished the sentence. He felt Vincent’s muscles tighten around him, heard Vincent keening into his shoulder, and then —

Wet and warm splashing against his stomach, his tentacles, painting his skin in another layer of slick liquid.

And Lazarus shattered.

A million tiny pieces scattered across the universe.

A billion stars, points of light coalescing, reassembling themselves, remaking him here, on this bed.

With Vincent — sticky and sweet and smelling of sea and home.

Utterly familiar and completely different.

 

_Step 13 — Say what you feel for each other._

Vincent wondered for a moment what had woken him. When Lazarus moved again, he realized the answer. Somehow, the covers had been kicked off and now Lazarus was snuggling up, seeking warmth in his sleep.

Vincent could see him clearly in the soft blue light from the planet spinning outside the window — the points of his crest, the slow flutter of his gill ridges, even the silvery stripes where Vin had stretched the skin of his pouch.

He considered pulling Lazarus into his arms and kissing him awake. He couldn’t see the clock, but he was sure it was morning, and he certainly had something very warm between his legs that Lazarus could snuggle with if he had a mind to. But instead, he pulled the blanket up over Lazarus and tucked away the sight of his naked body. Twice in one night is enough, thought Vincent. He was already starting to feel the ache from what they’d done in the shower.

And he didn’t want to ask for too much.

“Vincent?” Lazarus’s voice was low and sleep-creaky and capable of drawing both tenderness and desire from Vincent in quantities he was unused to feeling.

“Mm-hmm?”

Lazarus smiled, and Vincent’s heart stuttered at the simple confirmation that Lazarus was happy to be here with him.

“Make love with me?” Lazarus put his leg over Vincent’s, slipped his arm around his waist.

“So you do know some euphemisms for sex?” Vincent joked, a last-ditch effort to keep his emotions at a manageable size.

“I wasn’t speaking euphemistically,” said Lazarus.

Vincent looked at Lazarus’s warm, sincere, unguarded face.

“I love you too,” said Vincent.

 

 

***

 

 

After con, I wanted to write more about Lazarus and Chen — Maybe something about their wedding or Lazarus choosing to gestate another baby, maybe one that he and Chen would raise on New Tev’Meck — but I felt stuck, so I wrote the mystery novel that had been fermenting at the back of my mind for years now. It took a little over nine months, and I was getting ready to begin edits when I got my Quest Con 18 packet.

I called Trent to ask if he’d gotten his.

“I got it this morning,” he said. “But I think I’m going to skip it this year.”

“Skip it?” I asked brilliantly. “Why?”

“Well, the guys and I were thinking of hitting GalCon this year instead. I really don’t think I can do both, not and fund my 401k this year.” He laughed a little at his own joke.

“Oh,” I said, still just as brilliant. My mind was racing over every possible reason for this. GalCon was in just a couple weeks, but he and his buds were still just toying with the idea? That really didn’t make sense. But a lot of the things Trent was doing these days didn’t make sense.

It used to be rare for a day to go by when we didn’t see each other or call each other or, at the very least, IM each other. Now a week could go by with no contact. Then he’d come over with my favorite Chinese carryout and spend the night, but even that wasn’t the same. Our conversations were stiff and weird, like both of us were trying to cheerfully avoid some subject — except I didn’t know what the subject was exactly.

All sexual contact had ceased. We barely kissed or hugged. But then he’d ask to stay over or invite me to his place. I’d crawl into bed with him in the first light of morning, and he’d reach out, all soft and sleepy, and he’d hold me and brush my hair back with his fingers until I fell asleep.

And now he didn’t want to go to Quest Con, and he still hadn’t told me what was coming between us. And I was tired of trying to guess.

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe we could do something soon, just the two of us. Maybe take a trip up to the U.P. or something — get away from everything and talk.”

“That sounds great,” he said. “We’ll do that soon.”

“Yeah, okay. Talk to you later.” I hung up before he could hear me crying.

Over the next week, before I began edits on the mystery novel, I wrote this —

 

 

***

 

Shouldn’t I Have This?

By Thalia Z.

 

_Step 14 — Introduce your intended to your family._

Lazarus found Vincent at the docks, talking and laughing with the Dock Master and a small group of what he assumed were engineers. Vincent spotted him and waved him over.

“My apologies for the interruption,” said Lazarus. “Cmdr. Taggart wishes to know if a departure time has been set, and it appears that your vox isn’t functioning.”

Vincent pulled the device out of the utility pouch on his uniform. He flipped it open. “Huh. Power source is fine. I’ll have to check it later. You can tell the commander that we’re done here and we can leave any time.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” They had agreed that they should keep things formal when on duty. But it was difficult to forget that he had been sucking this man’s cock less than five hours ago.

“You’re welcome, Doctor,” said Vincent with just a hint of a smile that said that he had also not forgotten.

Lazarus nodded to the assembly and turned to go.

“Doctor?” said Vincent. “Do you have a moment?”

“Yes,” said Lazarus, turning back.

Vincent smiled at the others. “We’ll just be a minute,” he said.

He led Lazarus down the walkway a bit.

“I know we’re on duty and everything,” said Vincent, “but it sounds like we’re leaving soon, and there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Very well.”

They continued down the walkway to an observation area for a skeleton ship that was being built outside. Two women in blue NSEA uniforms were looking at plans for the ship.

“Hey, Meg,” said Vincent.

One of the women looked up. “Vinny! Do you know if we can get dinner tonight?” she asked.

“It’s not looking good,” said Vincent. “Cmdr. Taggart’s already asking when we’ll be finished.”

“Darn it. I just find out you’re here and you have to turn around and leave.”

“Sorry, maybe next time. Before we go though, I wanted you to meet someone. This is um… my boyfriend, Lazarus. Lazarus, this is my sister, Meghan.”

Boyfriend?

“Boyfriend?” said Meghan.

“Yes,” said Lazarus, recovering quickly and holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Meghan, grinning and shaking his hand. “Vincent’s never had a boyfriend before. I mean, he’s _bi_. I know that. There’ve been boys… and girls… who were friends, but not — oh hell.” Meghan cringed and put her hand over her eyes.

“I think what she means,” said Vincent, “is that I’ve never been serious enough to introduce her to anyone before.”

“Yes,” said Meghan, blushing. “That’s what she means.”

As it turned out, the _Protector_ did end up leaving within the hour. Vincent and his sister made firm plans to meet on Delta Station the following month and have dinner. Lazarus was invited to join them.

Vincent was always busy when they were leaving port. There were systems to be started, measurements to be taken, an entire undocking procedure to be completed.

It left Lazarus with plenty of time to think.

To think about things like “boyfriend” and “serious.”

And “I love you.”

As though he had not been thinking about them all along.

They were the point of the whole exercise, weren’t they? Vincent had declared that quite clearly. He had always been serious about this, as had Lazarus, for that matter.

Love was to be expected. It was the hoped-for, worked-for outcome. Every step taken, every confession made, every moment spent together, every layer of armor stripped off and set aside — it was for this.

So why did it suddenly seem so _wrong_?

Where was that feeling of intense pleasure that had warmed him since Vincent had initiated this ritual? Since he had declared his intent – his _desire_ – to have Lazarus as his spouse?

Lazarus should be overjoyed.

He should be grateful that he had found someone to do this with him.

Do this for him.

So much had been done because someone had loved him. He should always be grateful.

But sometimes he was not.

Sometimes he was furious and resentful.

And then came the sick, dark disgust — the knowledge that he was hopelessly corrupted by anger, by selfishness, by treachery.

That he had selfishly chosen to love Vincent, knowing that he could only hurt what he loved.

A tiny part of Lazarus stood apart, watching this descent, knowing what it was and that it would pass.

But that tiny part couldn’t hope to compete with the millions of Mak’Tar who deserved what he had far more than he did.

They were dead, and he was not.

 

_Step 15 — Speak of your fears._

Vincent was surprised when Lazarus wasn’t in the mess hall that evening, but things come up, he reasoned. It wouldn’t be the first time Lazarus had eaten in Taggart’s office while they went over ship’s business. Or the first time he’d just grabbed a bite in his lab because he didn’t want to leave his work at a crucial moment. Vincent would see him later.

Except he didn’t. There was a note from Lazarus on his TABLIT.

“I’m rather over-tired and am going directly to bed. I don’t wish to disrupt your schedule, so I am remaining in my quarters tonight. — Lazarus”

Disappointing but understandable. Vincent was pretty beat himself. It would have been nice to crawl into a warm bed, hear Lazarus whisper “hello” as he threw a sleep-heavy arm over him. But things come up.

It didn’t mean that Lazarus would rather sleep without him.

Vincent grabbed his pillows and a blanket, and curled up on the couch.

The next morning, Lazarus wasn’t at breakfast, and Vincent didn’t have time to speculate about it before his shift started. Not that he let that stop him from speculating during his day, but there were plenty of distractions. The weekly emergency decided to show up about an hour before his shift ended, and by the time he’d pulled an impossible amount of extra engine power out of his ass at the last minute, he barely had the energy necessary to eat something he couldn’t taste and head back to his quarters.

Where there was still no Lazarus — not even a note this time.

There were lots of reasons why Lazarus could be too busy for him.

Reasons that did not include changing his mind about Vincent.

Vincent got his bedding and lay down on the couch.

But he didn’t sleep.

What would a sensible person do? The sort of person who doesn’t panic over not hearing from someone in 36 hours.

Lazarus was safe. Vincent would have been informed if he’d been abducted by mercenaries or gotten some horrible space virus.

So he was just busy. If there was an emergency in engineering, there was one on the command deck too. Lazarus was probably just tired and being polite again.

Vincent picked up his TABLIT and sent Lazarus a note — “Hell of a day, huh? See you at breakfast.” That didn’t sound needy, right? Just letting Lazarus know that he was thinking of him. Did he sign it “Vincent” or “Chen?”

Lazarus was the only person on the ship who called him “Vincent” with the very occasional exception of Tawny. Maybe it was too familiar?

Too familiar for a guy he’d spent the weekend naked in bed with? He signed it “Vincent.”

The next morning there was a note from Lazarus.

“My apologies. I require isolation at this time in order to meditate. I will contact you soon. — Lazarus”

That was reasonable, right? A reasonable thing to ask of somebody.

It didn’t necessarily mean that Lazarus needed to meditate about them, and if he did need to meditate about them, it didn’t necessarily mean he was having second thoughts.

But it sure sounded like second thoughts.

It had all been going well, right? Very well. Wonderfully well. They were happy. They were getting closer. Lazarus was pulling, inviting Vincent in. And Vincent was pushing a little, letting himself want things, ask for things. But maybe asking for too much? Maybe he should have defined their relationship better before saying something to his sister. Maybe Lazarus didn’t want it known that they were close, but he’d kissed Vincent on the command deck that day. That was sort of an announcement, right? He had slept, non-euphemistically, with Vincent in front of the crew and their commander. In front of his best friend. But maybe he was changing his mind.

Or maybe this had nothing to do with Vincent at all. He wasn’t the center of the universe. He wasn’t the center of anything.

But he had thought, perhaps, that Lazarus wouldn’t shut him completely out.

Vincent took a few deep breaths, then went to the head to get ready for his shift.

 

_Step 16 — Speak of your sorrows._

The door chimed as Lazarus was finishing the last form. He pulled on a robe.

“Enter.”

It was Peter with a tray of food.

“How’re you doing?” he asked, setting the tray on the bed.

Lazarus looked disinterestedly at the tray. “I was performing the _Sind_ _’has dek_ Grabthar. It is often effective.”

“Not quite what I was asking, but okay.”

Lazarus smiled grimly.

“I’m worried about you, Doc. It’s never been this bad before.”

“I know, Peter. My apologies.”

Taggart waved a hand. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I just wish I could help.”

Lazarus shook his head. “There’s really nothing you can do.”

“I figured,” said Peter. “That’s why I had Tawny put in a call to your friend, Sha’ree.”

Lazarus frowned. “You contacted Sha’ree?”

“I figured if you couldn’t talk to me, and you’re apparently not talking to Chen, maybe you could talk to someone who understands what you’re going through…”

It said something about how far gone he’d been that it hadn’t occurred to him to reach out to another Mak’Tar.

“Thank you.”

Peter smiled. “You’ve got about 15 minutes to put on some clothes and eat a little.” He nodded toward the tray and left.

Lazarus lifted the lid — _Kep-mok_ bloodticks. He _was_ being babied. He ate them despite the grinding feeling of not deserving anything that he might even slightly enjoy. They were already in their suspension and would just die if he didn’t. He wasn’t about to add wasting food to his list of sins. Besides, his body could use the protein and his body carried worthier inhabitants than himself.

There was a helpful thought.

He ran a 3-minute cycle in the shower and pulled on a clean uniform.

The look on Sha’ree’s face when she saw him said that he needn’t have bothered.

“Oh, Lazarus.”

“Sha’ree. How are Vin and Tavid?”

“They’re fine. What happened?” she asked.

Lazarus sighed. “I allowed myself to achieve some happiness.”

Sha’ree’s mouth twisted. “It’s always when things are going well.”

“What do you do? When it gets… like this?” He wanted to keep Sha’ree talking. Her voice was soothing.

“I go up into the mountains or to the sea. Someplace that makes me feel small, I guess. It helps to remind myself how little power I have over the universe. Then I tell myself that there are people who love me and need me. Sometimes I just need to sort what I can do from what I can’t. You?”

“Variations on that. Exercise, meditation… It’s different this time.”

Worse.

Sha’ree was silent, waiting.

“He loves me,” said Lazarus.

“You deserve it,” she said without hesitation.

“I…” He stopped himself before the “don’t.”

Sha’ree heard it anyway. “You do. You deserve happiness and affection and companionship. You _do_ , Lazarus.”

“It’s what you’re supposed to say.”

“Of course it’s what I’m supposed to say. It’s the truth.”

“No one’s said that they love me since the Night of the Ships.”

The Night of the Ships was what the refugees called it among themselves — the night their parents and caretakers had told them “Good-bye,” and “Be brave,” and “We love you,” and then sent them all away.

“What are you afraid of?” asked Sha’ree.

“Wounding him like I wounded her.” Lazarus touched the seam of his pouch, remembering. “I pleaded with her not to hurt me and then not to leave me. I begged until my voice failed. What that must have done to her…”

“Listen to me,” she said. “Your mother was an adult. It was her choice — her choice to place the volvac sacs in you and her choice to put you on the ship. She knew what pain she could live with and what she couldn’t.

“Vincent is also an adult. You have to do him the honor of assuming that he knows his own mind and heart — and limits.

“You couldn’t control her actions. You can’t control his. You can end this thing you’ve begun with him, but you can’t stop him from loving you.”

 

_Step 17 — Abide together._

After an hour of staring at the screen and not writing a note to Lazarus, Vincent set the TABLIT aside and lay down. He stared at his dark room instead and obsessed over every detail of his most recent interactions with Lazarus. What had he missed? Had he missed anything? Had he missed everything? Was there some explanation for what was happening that didn’t include Lazarus not wanting him? One that made as much sense as Lazarus just not wanting him?

When the door chimed, he flinched. Why was someone here in the middle of the night? He glanced at the clock. Or at 2100?

Vincent stood and smoothed his uniform.

“Enter.”

It was Lazarus.

“Your palm-print still works on the panel,” said Vincent, his brain scrambling for something other than “Why are you here?” and landing on the stupidest thing possible.

“I was unaware,” said Lazarus, walking across the room to where Vincent still stood near the couch.

Right. Why wouldn’t he have changed it? Lazarus didn’t live here anymore. Changing it made sense. Not changing it looked… desperate? Sentimental? Weird?

Lazarus kissed him, sucking the breath from his lungs along with, he suspected, several pieces of his soul.

“I suppose we need to talk,” said Lazarus quietly.

What was Vincent supposed to say?

“Yeah, I suppose so.” Agreeing with Lazarus seemed safe. Perhaps he could manage to not make this worse if it was bad, or ruin it if it was good.

Lazarus didn’t talk though. He put his hands on either side of Vincent’s face and kissed him again, slipping inside his mouth, caressing Vincent’s tongue with his own.

And when they ran out of breath and broke apart, Vincent said the worst thing possible.

“Is this… are we doing goodbye sex? Because I don’t think I can… not with you.”

“No.” Lazarus looked at Vincent like he’d just sprouted antennae. “No,” he repeated. “Sweet Ipthar. I’ve done this all wrong.”

“No?” Vincent really couldn’t process the rest.

“No. Absolutely not. This isn’t goodbye, not unless that’s what you want.”

Not goodbye. Absolutely not goodbye.

“Then what the hell has been going _on_?” asked Vincent.

Lazarus sighed and sat on the end of the couch. He nodded toward the empty spot next to him. “Please?”

Vincent sat beside him. He took Lazarus’s hand, twined their fingers together and held on.

Lazarus looked at something across the room, or maybe something across the galaxy. It reminded Vincent of the night they’d argued about the Digital Conveyor.

“For every Mak’Tar that survived the Devastation,” Lazarus began, “slightly more than 4,800,000 died. Sometimes, the weight of so many souls is… crushing.”

One soul in particular, thought Lazarus, but he wasn’t ready just yet to talk about his mother or how Vincent had unwittingly triggered memories of their last interactions with each other.

“I can’t possibly balance that scale,” Lazarus went on. “I can’t even begin. And sometimes, despite all rationality, I hate myself for that failure.

“It’s as if something dark and cold reaches up and surrounds me, drags me down to where it lives, where it hides.

“I’ve always feared that the NSEA would consider me mentally unfit if they were aware of these episodes. The only non-Mak’Tar who know are Peter and now you.

“I didn’t tell you earlier because I foolishly hoped it wouldn’t be an issue. It’s been years, but I ought to have known better. Warvan knows I’ve been provided with ample counseling on the matter.

“This ritual was designed to guide us through a profound metamorphosis in our lives. Of course it was meant to provoke self-examination, and it did. I began to question whether or not I had the right to be happy, to be with you… to be loved. The darkness came on so quickly…

“I didn’t want to burden you, and you seemed untroubled by my absence.

“I was an idiot to believe that. I’m sorry.”

Vincent shook his head. “You had enough to worry about, and I’ve gotten good at seeming fine.”

Lazarus looked at Vincent. “I was so afraid I’d hurt you that I ended up hurting you.”

“So another thing we suck at,” said Vincent.

Lazarus twisted around until he was facing Vincent. “Come here,” he said, putting his arms around him. Lazarus leaned back against the arm of the couch. Vincent allowed himself to be pulled along until he was reclining against Lazarus’s chest.

“This will occur again,” said Lazarus, “and when it does, I will need to be alone or with other Mak’Tar. There really isn’t anything you can do to assist me other than keep yourself well in my absence. But I promise you, I won’t leave you in the dark next time. I’ll be open with you about what’s happening to me as soon as I know. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.”

Lazarus buried his nose in Vincent’s dark curls and breathed.

Vincent’s eyes were closing. He hadn’t slept well in days and now he was nearly horizontal.

And warm and comfortable — and Lazarus still wanted him.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Lazarus. “It’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Mmm. Why must you always seem untroubled even when events that would trouble anyone are occurring?”

“A lot of those things don’t actually trouble me,” said Vincent. “I’m genuinely calm and focused in an emergency.”

“But having your… boyfriend go incommunicado for three days is another matter.”

“I was afraid I’d fucked up somehow, said too much or pushed too hard.”

“You’re the least demanding person in the galaxy, Vincent.”

“I thought maybe you weren’t ready to hear that I love you.”

“I said it first,” Lazarus pointed out.

“Sort of. I could have read too much into what you’d said. Or maybe you weren’t ready to have us be official.”

“Everyone in our lives is aware of this.”

“I never said it made sense,” said Vincent.

Lazarus was silent for a moment, stroking Vincent’s arm.

“Somewhere, somehow, you’ve become convinced that you can’t even hint at wanting the most reasonable things imaginable. Why?”

Vincent really didn’t want to talk about how pathetic he could be.

“It’s trivial compared to —”

“This isn’t a contest. It is not trivial. And I don’t want to go on hurting you,” said Lazarus.

“I’ve never talked about this.”

Lazarus waited, still stroking his arm.

Okay, then.

Vincent took a long breath and started.

“I got in the habit of being out of the way as a kid. I was praised for entertaining myself and not being underfoot — at home, at school. My teachers liked that I wasn’t a problem. They often told me that I wasn’t stretching myself academically, but that was really the extent to which they noticed me.

“Other kids liked me okay, but I wasn’t anyone’s best friend. I was handy for when they needed an extra player, you know?

“But I was um… I was pretty starved for affection, actually, especially after my grandpa died. I had a series of really bad relationships around the end of high school and my first couple years of college.

“I had a habit of mistaking being needed for… being loved. I kept ending up with people who needed way more than a boyfriend. And when I couldn’t meet those needs, they’d break it off for reasons that seemed to come out of nowhere — I was too clingy, too aloof, too intense, too unemotional.

“So I quit dating, and that put me back to being lonely. Then I met Mateo. I loved him, but not like I’d loved anyone else. We were friends — I mean friends who also had sex — but mostly friends. Mateo was polyamorous. Through him, I met other polyamorous people. I learned that I could get a small amount of affection from a half a dozen sources, and it was less dangerous than trying to figure out how to be with just one person. I’m not saying that’s how all polyamorous relationships are — I’ve seen plenty of people who love each other deeply — but that’s how it worked out for me.

“I was on the periphery of other people’s lives again. It seemed like where I belonged. That way, when I messed up a relationship, I wasn’t completely alone.

“Not that I always mess it up. Sometimes it’s something else, like when Kaia met someone she wanted to be exclusive with or when Mateo died. But I still expect it to blindside me. I know it’s coming, but I never know when or how.

“I don’t feel hated. I’m just not important enough to anyone for them to put up with a lot of inconvenience for my sake. So I don’t ask for much, and I never say that someone is important to me because that would put them on the spot if they don’t feel the same way, and that makes me seem distant and uninvested, so they don’t invest in me. And it just goes around and ‘round.

“It feels different with you, though. Maybe because I already know you. I know how serious you are. I know who you are. You think differently from other people. Maybe because you’re Mak’Tar, I don’t know. Maybe what’s normal to a Mak’Tar is closer to… whatever I am. I don’t feel as odd when I’m with you, and it’s comforting.

“When you went from being so open and implying that you love me— I mean it felt… enormous and important… intimate and like everything I’ve told myself to stop wanting — to avoiding me and sending curt notes, I assumed the worst. I’m sorry. I know I should have trusted you… I kept telling myself that there was something reasonable happening, that it wasn’t… but I couldn’t make myself believe it.

“And the whole time, you were dealing with your past. It had nothing to do with me.

“I’m sorry. That was a mess.”

Lazarus tightened his arms around Vincent and kissed the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry you lost your grandfather and Mateo.”

Vincent pressed himself closer to Lazarus. “Thank you,” he said, unsure what, if anything, to add, but touched that Lazarus would think to acknowledge his losses before anything else.

Lazarus combed his fingers through Vincent’s hair, slow and gentle.

“I love you, Vincent Chen, and I apologize profusely for only implying that before. You are very much at the center of my life. I find you neither alien nor strange. You fit with me as if we were made for each other.”

“Do you believe in fate all of a sudden?” asked Vincent.

“No. I believe in you and I believe in what we are creating together.”

Lazarus nuzzled the back of Vincent’s neck some more.

“You know,” said Vincent, “we have a bed right over there.”

“ _We_ do?”

“Yes, _we_ do.”

“Well, in that case, may I suggest that we retire to it?”

Vincent stood and held out his hand. Lazarus took it as he also stood up. He led the way to the sleeping area.

“Just to be absolutely unambiguous,” said Lazarus as they were taking off their uniforms, “you _did_ just invite me to live with you, correct?”

“To abide with me,” said Vincent, stepping into Lazarus’s space and kissing him.

“Vincent.”

“Yeah?”

“Just to be absolutely unambiguous — I’m saying yes.”

 

***

 

— But I never submitted it to any of the zines. It was just too messy — all dialog and no plot. A few days before Quest Con 18, though, I did put it on my GeoCities page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lazarus remembers begging his mother not to hurt him as she was placing the volvac sacs in his body. He also remembers begging her not to leave him when she placed him on one of the escape ships. It's a fair amount of whump is what I'm saying.
> 
> Lazarus has a tentacle dick. I had to do it, and I'm not sorry.
> 
> Songs!  
> Hot Chocolate -- [You Sexy Thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3fX2_bxEkg) \-- Errol Brown, Tony Wilson  
> The Kinks -- [Lola](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LemG0cvc4oU) \-- Ray Davies  
> Mary Chapin Carpenter -- [Passionate Kisses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TCMpA5TfHc) \-- Lucinda Williams  
> Stone Poneys -- [Different Drum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9qsDgA1q8Y) \-- Mike Nesmith -- There aren't a whole lot of poly songs, especially ones sung by women, and this one is a very subjective choice, but that's how I've always heard it.


	11. Mary Sue's Fifth Time Trip -- 1997

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it all just sort of piles up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad, triggery, squicky things happen here, but none that haven't happened in earlier chapters. Mary Sue just feels the need to review them all and have some nightmares about them.

The floor upon which I am currently crouching on all fours seems solid enough. The corner of the bedspread I use to wipe my mouth is just the way I left it. The wall directly ahead is fine, as are the walls to my right and left. The ceiling is okay, I guess. The fixture in the middle of it is giving off light.

It’s the corners that are wrong. They’re missing. And instead of seeing the hallway or the rooms beside and beneath us, there’s just… nothing. I glance cautiously at the nearest corner of the floor. Below us is a glowing pit where the rest of the building should be. I snatch my gaze away from it before my heart tries to escape through my esophagus again.

I try to stand up, but this only improves visibility. I drop to the floor again and whine.

“What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck...”

“Mary Sue.”

It’s Laliari.

“Mary Sue, listen. There isn’t much time.”

I bite down on hysterical laughter. I’ve just spent a year living this weekend.

I feel something warm touch my hand. Worried that I might have just put it in the sick, I crack open an eye.

It’s a tentacle. I focus on it. A minor puzzle. Clearly, the tentacle belongs to Laliari. Follow it, and I’ll find her.

I’m not alone. I have a friend.

I sit up and look down the length of the tentacle until I see her. She’s sitting beside the bed, and as long as I look at her, I can’t see anything but a perfectly normal hotel room with a quivering tentacled alien in it.

She’s scared. I may not be adept at reading Thermian body language, but that much is clear.

“Laliari,” I say. “What happened?”

“It’s the Fatu-Krey. Their attack began about two hours ago.”

“And this?” I wave my hand around at the room.

“The Time Jump Accelerator is stabilized within the original timeline so that it can’t become lost should something disrupt that timeline in a way that would cause it not to have been brought here.”

I nod. I had wondered, but I’d filed it under the heading of Things I Can Ask About Later.

“The mechanism doesn’t run constantly,” she goes on. “It’s triggered by any event that destabilizes the timeline in such a way that the Accelerator may be affected. This is to conserve the energy contained in its auxiliary power source. When you were lost after the second time trip, I manipulated the mechanism in order to expand the sphere of influence in the event that the mechanism was triggered again.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m following you so far.”

“The stabilization mechanism has been running on battery power for the last hour. This room is stabilized, but the power source is running low. I have supplemented it with the power source in my Appearance Generator. But you must return to the past soon, before there isn’t enough power to activate the Accelerator.”

“How long do we have?” I ask.

“I estimate about fifteen of your minutes.”

Well, that’s just… great. I try to find a starting point.

“What information do we have to work with?” I ask. “I don’t seem to have any new memories.”

“That’s an effect of the stability bubble,” she says. “Give me your hand-held device and I will download what information I have been able to gather.”

I grab the knapsack and take it to her.

“Where’s Fred?” I ask.

“In order to obtain information, it was necessary that one of us leave the bubble.”

I look at her. He was out there. I look behind me, knowing what I’m going to see. This room is a rectangle, after all, but a bubble is a sphere.

The window wall is completely gone.

Outside, beyond the missing wall, where the lights of L.A. should be shining in the distance, is a glow like an aurora coming from the ground. Closer to us, it’s just more craters full of rubble, glowing sickly in the night.

Fred was out there.

I look back at Laliari. She’s trembling even harder now.

“Laliari?”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say, hoping I’m right. “I’m going to get him back, Laliari. I promise.”

Her quivering subsides a little. “You cannot make that promise, Mary Sue, but I have great faith in your abilities.”

“Atta girl.” I smile at her in a way that I hope is reassuring.

She picks up the Palm and links it to her own. While I’m sure that hers is alien tech meant to look like Earth tech and mine is Earth tech with a few enhancements, they do seem to know how to talk to each other.

“Do you have any idea when I need to travel to?” I ask.

“Yes. The mechanism recorded the exact time and date when the timeline was destabilized. March 12, 1997, at 14:06.”

“Okay, give me a couple weeks before that to try and figure out what I need to do?”

“Alright. Where should I send you?”

I think about it. Definitely not Alex’s. I’ll need some time to calm the fuck down before I see Alex. Elliot? Elliot’s out of the closet in ‘97, and if he wasn’t living with Casey before, he probably is now. Frank? I know he’s clean and sober in 1999, and has been for awhile. Two years though? Can I pin it to something I know the date of?

Yes. Yes I can. Trent took me to a B&B in Saugatuck for my 35th birthday, and when we got back, the Web had blown up with the news that Frank had said in a recent interview that he’d be very interested in doing a _Galaxy Quest_ movie. Somebody suggested that it was just the cocaine talking, and Cece reminded them that Frank had been on the wagon for over a year.

So yeah, he should be okay.

“Frank Ross’s house,” I say.

“Alright,” says Laliari, uncoupling the devices and stuffing mine into the knapsack. “Are you ready?”

I look down at myself. And of course I managed to get puke on my dress.

There’s no bathroom anymore, so I just yank off my clothes. We’re all girls here. I think. One of whom may or may not be sexually attracted to the other.

Fuck it. Laliari doesn’t have a stitch on, and it’s really tiring pretending to have any modesty. I pull my suitcase closer and pull out the brown and green knit skirt and olive green t-shirt I’d planned to wear on the plane trip home. I’m sure they were still positively trendy two years ago. I pull them on and shove my feet into my chunky brown sandals.

I grab the knapsack and crawl over to the Accelerator. I take a deep breath and stand up.

“Ready,” I say.

Laliari reaches out a tentacle and taps the control panel.

“Good luck, Mary Sue,” I hear her say just as I’m swallowed up in sparkly gold light…

 

… and deposited in Frank’s living room.

“Mary Sue?”

Frank is peering around the corner from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Is that you?”

Like… who else would it be?

“The one and only,” I say. (At least, I don’t _think_ I’ve managed to paradox another me into existence.)

He tosses the towel over his shoulder and comes around the corner, holding out his hands.

Most of his hair is gone now, and what’s left has gone white. He’s also starting to put on some weight, but I’m happy to see that he looks healthy.

“Look at you!” he says, taking my hands in his. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” I say. “I’ve aged slightly over three months.”

He laughs. “That’s better than fifteen years like the rest of us poor jerks.”

“I had to do it one day at a time once too,” I say. “I think I’ve earned the Cliff Notes version since I’m doomed to do it twice.”

It’s about then that the shaking starts.

“Mary Sue?” says Frank, putting his hands on my upper arms. “Jesus, kid. Come sit down before you fall down.”

I allow Frank to lead me to the couch. I sit down and drop the knapsack at my feet. I lean forward and take some slow breaths, willing myself not to hyperventilate.

Frank gingerly places a hand on my back.

“Can I get you something?” he asks.

“Some water would be good,” I say.

“Okay.” He gets up and goes to the kitchen. I can hear ice rattling into a glass. He must have one of those door dispensers now. Well, in twenty years, a person is bound to need a new fridge at least once.

He comes back with a glass of water and hands it to me.

I drink a little and set it on the glass top of the coffee table.

“Thanks,” I say. “I had a pretty big rush of adrenaline just before I got here.”

“Can’t say why though, I suppose.”

I smile. “Nope, sorry.”

“Well, what do you need me to do?” he asks.

“Nothing, as far as I know. But right now I don’t know very much. My… handler gave me some files to go over. I have two weeks to figure it out and get it taken care of.”

“So out of all the living rooms in all of the houses in all of Hollywood Hills, why appear in my living room?”

Frank does a terrible Mid-Atlantic accent, but that gets a laugh.

And the laugh does make me feel a little better.

“There’s not a whole lot of living rooms I can appear in. I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes, but I’m actually trying to keep this whole thing on the QT. As you pointed out, I look a little strange to anyone who last saw me in 1981.”

“Or ‘83 or ‘93,” says Frank.

“Exactly,” I say. “I thought Elliot might be living with someone now, and I have no idea what Alex’s situation might be…”

“I don’t think he could fit another person into that dinky apartment of his.”

“What? I mean, what happened to his house?” I ask.

Frank winces a little at having let the feline out of the sack. “He took a loan out on the equity. He was… six years, I think, from paying it off. He took a big gamble on a play about a Scottish cleric by the name of M’Neille. Kind of an interesting guy, really — larger than life, contentious and argumentative, had an unfortunate tendency to lead with his heart instead of his head. Anyway, the production was great — the writing, the acting, the costumes, the tech — it was as perfect as you’d expect knowing Alex. It got rave reviews from the few people who reviewed it, and it bombed anyway. He lost the house.”

I don’t know what to say, but I guess my face says it all.

“Yeah,” agrees Frank.

We sit there for a little bit. I wonder if I should ask about Letitia. I mean, I know where she is and why, because even though I avoid that sort of thing, one of my newsgroups was talking about the details of her autobiography.

I decide it’s better to play stupid.

“Where’s Letitia?” I ask.

“At her sister’s,” says Frank.

I nod.

“It got to be too much,” he says. “I don’t know if she’s ever coming back.”

I mean, she owns the place, but I get what he’s driving at.

“Not that I blame her,” he goes on. “I put her in a difficult spot. I’ve treated myself like shit and my heart’s been paying the price. The doctors say if I use again, I’ll probably die. She doesn’t want to be the one to find my corpse.”

“So don’t use again,” I say.

“Ya think?” He makes a weird noise, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, that’s a solid plan,” I say, and we both crack up – if you’ll forgive the expression.

Some things — you laugh so you don’t cry.

“Writer and producer,” says Frank. “It’s 24-hour-a-day job. I’m not the first one to use a little something to see me through, and the money guys don’t care. There was always ten more just like me, waiting for me to get used up. But,” he sighs, “I made something — something big — and they can’t take that away.”

I touch his hand. “Stay alive, Frank. Stay away from the cocaine and the amphetamines, and someday, I promise you, I will come here and tell you the whole story of just how big the thing you made really is.”

He grins at me and shakes my hand. “You got a deal, sister.”

He stands up and hauls me up after him.

“Okay,” he says. “Enough about my problems. You apparently have the weight of the world on your shoulders…”

Heh.

Hehe.

Help.

“…and the only thing I’ve got to offer is the guest house. I’m sure you’d rather go over your files in private.”

I grab my knapsack and follow Frank down to his office, where he retrieves the guest house key from his desk. I guess he doesn’t keep it on the hook anymore.

“Do you have Alex’s number?” I ask.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he just nods and flips through his Rolodex. He writes the number on a sticky note and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Good luck, kid,” he says. “Just whistle if you need me.”

“Just how much Bogie are you watching these days?” I ask.

“All of it,” he answers.

 

I look around the guest house. There are new chairs in the living room — dark blue velvet wing chairs. Like the old brown ones, they share a matching ottoman. The flokati’s gone, replaced by a black area rug with blue leaves on it. I bet it’s a joy to keep clean. The old rattan bar stool is also gone. There are two plain wooden stools instead. The fridge is gone and the old one from the main house is in its place. Otherwise, it looks pretty much the same.

The sound system is still there, although my albums are gone. I open the sliding door on the lower part of the cabinet. There’s my big stack of reel-to-reel tapes. I take one out — “Music to Clean By.”

I thread it up and push play. Debbie Harry singing “Denis” fills the space.

I leave it on while I check out the rest. In the kitchen I find the old Oster unit and some of the same baking stuff — mixing bowls and what-not. The cast iron’s gone and a mid-range set of non-stick pans are in its place, along with a few stainless pieces that I’m pretty sure also used to reside in the main house.

The powder room has had a fresh coat of pale blue paint. I check the closet and find that the old loose panel is still loose. I stick a hand in there and find the hook. Well, good to know I have it if I need it.

Downstairs still has the old king-sized bed, but it’s grown four massive faux-whitewashed posts and wrought iron head- and foot-boards.

It’s also decidedly… flouncy. There’s a cream and ivory striped dust ruffle, a scalloped cream and ivory damask patterned comforter, and approximately 500 or so pillows of every shape and size covering the whole works from the headboard to the halfway point — all in various cream and/or ivory prints. The windows now sport coordinating flouncy curtains and a dramatically flounced valance.

It’s… just… wow.

There’s also a rather ugly pine blanket chest with a cream-colored bow stenciled on it. The old slipper chair is still there, although it now has a flouncy ivory slipcover and a cream throw pillow.

The bathroom is the same as it was. There’s just not much room in here to decorate unless you feel like actually changing fixtures, and apparently no one has.

All the towels have grown flouncy, lacy trim though.

In my current emotional state, I find the whole thing weirdly hilarious.

I’m back in the bedroom when the next song comes on — “Rivers of Babylon” — “…and there we wept when we remembered Zion.”

I peek through the window sheers at L.A.

I suppose it’s more likely to be compared to Sodom or Gomorrah. Maybe that’s why it’s growing on me.

I head back upstairs.

I turn the volume on the stereo way down and pick up the phone — a fairly recent cordless model with a digital answering machine built into the base.

I feel really guilty. Am I doing the right thing, bringing Alex into this?

I don’t even need him for this.

Except I do need him for me.

And I did promise. Like, two whole hours ago.

I dial the number on the sticky note.

I get voicemail.

“Hi Alex. It’s me…” (Maybe he doesn’t remember my voice.) “…uhm… Mary Sue. I’m at Frank’s. Give me a call or stop by…” (Maybe he’s moved on.) “…if you want.”

I put the phone back on its cradle and retrieve the Palm from my knapsack.

Best get to it. The galaxy’s not going to save itself.

There are two short documents in the folder marked, “Thermian Auto-Archive: Records From the Battle of the Tothian Minefield.” This must be the information Fred had to leave the bubble in order to get.   

> From the Thermian Auto-archive. —
> 
> Commander’s Log — Astral Time 11909.21.543 of the year 12248.
> 
> _Second Officer Mathesar speaking._
> 
> As Dr. Lazarus warned us, the berylium sphere did not survive the stresses placed on the quantum flux drive by sustained use of the turbo function. Tech Sgt. Chen has located a source of berylium spheres on Epsilon Gorniar II. He assures us that we should be able to reach that system using endothermic propulsion. 
> 
> Commander’s Log — Astral Time 11909.21.591 of the year 12248.
> 
> _Acting Commander Mathesar speaking._
> 
> Cmdr. Taggart and his crew have left in the surface pod. Work has begun on repairing the forward thruster shaft, the aft vector guards, and the numerous structural breaches. I was surprised when Lt. Madison didn’t stay behind to work on the communications array herself, but the commander insisted that she was vital to their mission.
> 
>  
> 
> Commander’s Log — Astral Time 11909.21.686 of the year 12248.
> 
> _Acting Commander Mathesar speaking._
> 
> Cmdr. Taggart and the others have not returned from the surface of Epsilon Gorniar II. We fear the worst. Quellek castigates himself mercilessly for not volunteering to go with them.
> 
>  
> 
> Commander’s Log — Astral Time 11909.21.712 of the year 12248.
> 
> _Acting Commander Mathesar speaking._
> 
> Roth’h’ar Sarris has boarded the _Protector_ with one hundred of his elite guard. They have confined the crew to the barracks and are even now closing in on my position. I have failed the commander, my crew, and my people. My only hope now is that I may conduct myself with honor in the coming ordeal, and die with my secrets intact. I have initiated the Black Box Protocol as per regulations.

Oh, Mathesar. You’re too good for this world, hon.

Anyway, as outlined in “Loner on a Lonely Planet,” the Black Box Protocol is something the commander is supposed to initiate if he thinks the ship is in imminent danger of complete destruction. The ship’s computer records the conversations on the command decks and in the engine room. It also records the ship’s overall condition and any changes to that condition that occur. If the ship is destroyed, this record, along with all ship’s logs are transmitted back to NSEA Headquarters or, in this case apparently, an automated archive on what’s left of Thermia. The computer records at all times, but it only retains the last fifteen minutes of records. Once the protocol is initiated, the program stops dumping old info. An actual, physical black box is also on board the _Protector_. It’s virtually indestructible, and it would contain the same record. However, all the Auto-archive received were Mathesar’s logs, which are automatically transmitted every twelve hours.

In other words, Mathesar expected the _Protector_ to be destroyed, but it wasn’t.

I scroll to the next document.   

> 48.16.18.9.5 GST (Galactic Standard Time)
> 
> Transmission intercepted from the Fatu-Krey vessel _K'ragk-Vort't_ to the captains of the vessels _G_ _’reb-Thek_ and _Breg_ _’t-Voy_. —
> 
> By order of the Supreme General, you are to proceed immediately to the Korunda Lel* System. Your target is Korunda Lel III**. It is a primitive world with no defensive capabilities worth mentioning. There isn’t even a base on its single moon. However, it has offended the Sarris Dominion and its Leader, and that shall not stand. Destroy all urban centers on the dark side of the planet. Supreme General Sarris wishes to hear the remaining citizens of that world beg for mercy before he punishes them as well.
> 
> *Sol
> 
> **Earth

Seriously? Fuck Sarris.

I mean, I know it’s not objectively worse for him to be doing to Earth what he did to Thermia just because I know way more Earthlings but, seriously? Fuck Sarris.

I grab the keyboard and unfold it on the ottoman. I settle the Palm into its cradle and start a new doc. What do I know?

1\. The actors go to the planet where they find the beryllium mine.

2\. While they’re on the planet’s surface, Sarris takes over the _Protector_.

Okay, so far, that jibes with the story that Fred and Laliari told me.

3\. Jason and the rest don’t come back.

4\. Sarris gets pissy about something and orders an attack on Earth.

Okay, so something happened between 2 and 3 that didn’t happen the first time. (I know, I’m an utter fucking genius.)

I open the document containing Fred’s account of the adventure with the Thermians. According to that, they got back from the planet to find Sarris had taken control of the ship and was torturing Mathesar. Sarris wanted to know the secret of the Omega 13 device. (Well, he’s not the only one who’s ever wanted that info, but I don’t think any fans were contemplating torture to obtain it.) Jason was forced to show Sarris the “historical documents” in order to convince Sarris to quit torturing Mathesar, and to _not_ start torturing Gwen. At that point, Sarris ordered his thugs to force the actors out an airlock. The crew was to be slowly suffocated, and the entire ship was set to self-destruct.

But — if the cast never made it back from the planet, Sarris would still be operating under the assumption that the Omega 13 device was a powerful weapon. Or, at least, a powerful _something_.

I pull up the star chart Laliari gave me back when she first briefed me on the details of their mission. Suprisingly, reading a real star chart is remarkably similar to reading a pretend one. I mean, I hope it is.

If I _am_ reading this right, our solar system is not in the territory of the Dominion, but we’re not far from it. There’s a whole lot of not much in our general vicinity, so my guess is we’re not worth bothering with beyond doing a fly-by every now and again to make sure we’re not getting advanced enough to start looking around for a new neighborhood with better nightlife…

…yet.

So — Sarris is standing on the deck of the _Protector_. This uppity Thermian keeps saying he doesn’t know what the Omega 13 does. None of the puny humans are around to tell him. He’s gonna head over to their home planet and see if he can find someone a little more chatty there. I’m guessing that finding our address isn’t difficult.

But hold the phone.

His intel says that we’ve barely crawled out of our caves. How do we have a ship and a weapon this advanced? Did we make a sudden leap while no one was looking? Or are we the yokels he believes we are with the exception of this one thing? Maybe we developed a super-weapon in some kind of freak accident, the Thermians heard about it, and offered their advanced technical expertise in exchange for getting rid of their Sarris problem?

Better send a couple of underlings (bonus if those underlings have been having _ideas_ lately) to check it out. No sense in having them panic, though. Only give them the official version of our capabilities.

I think that covers the facts. That’s the most direct path between steps 3 and 4. But it still doesn’t answer the most important question — why didn’t the cast come back to the _Protector_?

Well, Epsilon Gorniar II is no Nerf Planet. Blue demon spawn, pig lizard thingies, sentient and animate rock monsters, heights — there’s a lot of ways to die there.

So is that what happened?

It’s one possibility. They could also have been injured and unable to reach the surface pod. They could have reached the surface pod, but been unable to operate it. The surface pod could have crashed when they arrived at the planet, killing or injuring them. Or they could have been perfectly fine, but the pod could have been too damaged to leave.

No. Assuming the pod was built to the show’s specs – and there’s absolutely no reason to believe it wasn’t – it would be able to communicate with the ship. Hell, it would have automatically sent a damage report if there was a problem with the landing. Not that the Thermians would be able to do much. They were unable to decipher Fred’s manipulation of the digital conveyor since he had never bothered to standardize his gestures while using it on the show. And because the show couldn’t afford more than one surface pod, there was only one of them on board despite the fact that the launch bay could have easily held three. But the point is — that sort of thing would have shown up in Mathesar’s log.

Also, Jason, at least, would be carrying a vox. Standard protocol was to provide all members of a surface team with a vox and an ion nebulizer. From what I understand of the Thermians, they would most definitely have followed protocol. The likelihood that they were all injured too seriously to call the ship for hours is tiny.

Captured?

There may have been other life forms present, but it doesn’t appear that either the blue spawn or the rock guy were interested in taking prisoners, and the pig lizard didn’t seem sapient, so probably not.

Dead then?

It’s like the temperature of the room drops ten degrees at the idea of them dying out there, so far away — their mission a failure and the enemy coming for their home.

Focus, Mary Sue. Feeling sorry for them won’t keep them safe.

Something was different on that planet, and since Gath’gor can’t change anything on Epsilon Gorniar II, the something different had to come from Earth. I go through the docs again.

Twice.

All of the humans went to the planet to procure a beryllium sphere. All of the Thermians stayed on the ship, although apparently Quellek had considered going along.

That’s when it hits me — where would he have sat? A surface pod only holds six people. If Quellek was considering going too, there must have been an empty seat.

But there were six Humans — Jason, Gwen, Alex, Fred, Tommy and… that dude who died screaming in “Assault on Voltrex III.”

Unless Gath’gor found a way to prevent one of them from being on the _Protector_ like he tried to do with Alex.

Mathesar mentions Jason, Fred, Alex, and Gwen specifically. It has to be Tommy or Screamer.

Well, it’s more than I had… I glance at the clock… two and a half hours ago. It’s 12:30 now.

The Palm is nearly out of battery. I take it off the keyboard and plug it into its charger. Then I stand up and twist around a little, trying to loosen the muscles in my back.

There’s a lot of reasons why I may not have heard from Alex — lunchtime on a Wednesday, for instance.

I pick up the phone and double-check the number against the one on the sticky note. They’re the same.

Okay.

I head back to the main house. I’ve got questions for Frank.

 

“How does Astral Time work?” I ask. There are a number of theories, but I’m hoping that I won’t need a complex mathematical formula to figure this stuff out, especially since I’m pretty likely to screw up the arithmetic part.

Frank takes a sip of his iced tea. We’re sitting on the deck off the kitchen, eating pastrami on rye sandwiches. The bread is mediocre at best. I’ll try to make him a decent loaf this week. I don’t have a culture to work with, but there are ways to fake that. It would still be better than this stuff, which is dying an agonizing, mustard-soaked death under the weight of the pastrami.

“It’s just the air date plus a time code at the end,” he says.

“But they don’t align with the actual air dates,” I say, “except for the first digit corresponding to the season number.”

“They do if you use a Jewish calendar.”

“Elliot’s idea?”

“My idea,” says Frank. “I wanted the time to be nebulous. If nobody knew the month, then I didn’t have to do holiday episodes, and there was none of this ‘100 years from now’ jazz.”

Of course, if the show had said that the year was 2079, all the Thermians would have to do is compare it to a news broadcast to get the idea that _Galaxy Quest_ was just a puzzling collection of lies. They must have decided that the season number was the mission year or something. That’s why their first digit is 1 — year one of their _Protector_ _’s_ mission.

“After the season number,” Frank goes on, “the next four digits are the month. We took the first two letters and applied a straight A1Z26 cipher. After the point is the day. After the next point is a straight decimal time.”

“So…” I look at the sticky note, where I’ve scribbled the date from Mathesar’s log, “…11909.21.543 would be?”

“Nineteen oh nine point twenty-one would be Sivan the twenty-first. The last three digits are decimal time. Five would be noon. Forty-three is forty-three one-hundredths of the way to six. You can check the clock in my office. That’s what I always did.”

“Thanks,” I say.

After lunch, Frank takes me to the grocery store. By this time, I’m having a terrible time focusing. One watery iced tea in the last six hours is not enough caffeine to counteract even mild ADD. Plus I’ve been up for about fourteen hours now, and my body wants to know why we are food shopping. Food shopping is not a relaxing bedtime activity.

As a result, I can’t even begin to imagine what I might want to eat this week. I get stuff to make the rye bread and fancy grilled cheese sandwiches, a package of Fig Newtons, some tomato soup, and a pound of asparagus. On a whim, I get a handful of sample-size cheeses, some Sociables and a half-pound block of chocolate. On another whim, I get a box of Sauvignon blanc.

Already, some part of me has decided I will be sadness-eating by myself.

When I get back to the guest house, I check the machine. No messages. It’s four o’clock.

I double-check with Frank to make sure I have the correct number. I do.

I also ask him the name of the actor who played the dead guy from “Voltrex III.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” he says. “I don’t remember. He could really scream though. Jamie Lee Curtis had nothing on him.”

I check the times on Mathesar’s log — the first one takes place right around one in the afternoon and the last one is at five (give or take). That also lines up with Fred’s account.

So far, the only thing that’s different from what happened the first time is that someone’s missing. I go back to the guest house to go over all of the info again.

And, you know, to check my messages.

Nothing.

I make myself a strong cup of tea and start with trying to find the name of the mystery actor. It doesn’t take long — Fred said that he and Laliari and Guy went to shut the valve allowing air to drain out of the crew’s barracks.

Great. I do a search for the word “Guy” and eventually find his last name — Fleegman.

The emcee?

He was at Quest Con 18, wasn’t he?

I try to remember back to nearly four months of subjective time and several brain rearrangements ago — I remember Cece saying that it was too bad I’d missed the opening because they showed “The Omega Crisis” and Fleegman had been really good.

I poke at the memory a bit — it’s real, I think, but it was a long time ago and I wasn’t exactly paying close attention.

But it feels right.

Was Tommy there? I don’t recall Cece saying anything about any of the main cast being missing. Then again, I haven’t had loads of time to spend with her, and during most of it I was sleep-deprived and distracted.

Kind of like right now.

I look at the message light on the phone, as if maybe Alex made a call I wasn’t aware of while I was sitting right here.

I check the time — quarter to six.

I should call again, right? I mean, Alex was probably working before, and maybe he forgot to check his messages when he got home, and one voice message is not exactly a good-faith attempt.

I carefully dial the number.

Voice mail.

“Hi Alex,” I say. “It’s me again — Mary Sue. I’m calling again in case you didn’t get the first message. I’m still at Frank’s. Please give me a call and let me know… um… what’s going on… and stuff. Bye.”

Okay, Mary Sue. Don’t be stupid. There are plenty of reasonable explanations for not hearing from Alex. He could still be out. Maybe he has a job that’s far away or something. Even if he doesn’t want you anymore (Something grabs hold of my lungs and squeezes.), he wouldn’t just ignore you like… (like Jackson did) …this. He would talk to you at least.

I head into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich — grilled Monterey Jack with bacon and slices of avocado. On the way, I stop at the stereo and thread up a tape labeled, “Music for cooking.” Peter Gabriel’s clear tenor voice comes through the speakers — “Climbing up on Solsbury Hill, I could see the city light. Wind was blowing, time stood still…”

I had way more sense of humor about this shit the day I made this tape.

I make the sandwich methodically, concentrating on the music, trying to get my brain to quit racing. The wine hasn’t had time to chill, so I have a glass of milk while I eat. Then I wash the dishes by hand. By that time, Freddy Fender is crooning, “I’ll be there any time, you need me by your side…”

Music may not have been such a good idea.

I should go to bed, but I don’t want to. I haven’t slept alone in three months. And if there was a night when I could really use the comfort of another person in my bed, it’s this one.

I make one more call to Alex, but I hang up when it goes to voice mail again.

A part of my brain wails like a toddler when Mom and Dad go out for the night. The sensible part is also getting cranky and impatient, so it berates the toddler for being selfish and immature.

I need to just go downstairs, throw about eighty pillows on the floor, and crawl into bed.

And sob until I fall asleep, but at this point that’s just a given.

I also need some clothes.

I call Elliot.

By some miracle, for the first time in forever, someone I call picks up their fucking phone. You know, right when I’m at the point where I figure I can just about keep it together long enough to leave a message asking Elliot if he could bring my box of clothes by in the morning, if the box still exists.

“Hello?”

“Elliot? Hi.”

“Mary Sue!” Well, _he_ sounds happy to hear from me. That’s nice. “The caller I.D. said it was Frank.”

“I’m at the guest house,” I say.

“I gathered that. So what‘s your mission? What can I help you with?” he asks, a little eagerly.

“Right now, it’s just to find some clothes, really. There was a box…”

“Yeah. Alex has it,” he says, courteously leaving off the “duh.”

“I can’t reach him,” I say. “He isn’t answering my messages.” Everything from my epiglottis to my stomach hurts with trying not to cry.

“He isn’t getting them, then.” Elliot sounds like he’d like to add a “duh” to that statement too.

“Maybe. I don’t know…”

“I know,” says Elliot. “How long have you been back?”

I honestly can’t do the math right now. Maybe decimal time wasn’t such a stupid idea. “I got here around nine this morning. I left him a message around ten, and another at, I dunno, five-thirty?”

“Alright. I’m going over there and find out what’s going on.”

“Elliot, no.” I’m picturing Elliot swooping in and reading Alex the riot act for… for lack of chivalry? Or withholding my clothes? “I can get more clothes tomorrow.” That made sense, right?

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mary Sue.”

“You don’t be ridiculous, Elliot!” I swear to god, nobody pisses me off more efficiently than Elliot Spiegel. “You can’t just go over there and… and take him to task for not answering his damn messages!”

“The hell I can’t,” he says. “I’m going tell you something. Every year, every goddamn January third since you left, Alex goes out and gets absolutely shitfaced. I don’t even know how you do that on Campari and soda, but he manages it. Then he calls me to take him home, and I do, every goddamn year. And after I’ve taken off his shoes and poured his drunk ass into bed, he says, ‘Tell me she’s real, Elliot. Tell me I didn’t dream her.’ And it’s one of the saddest damn things. So I _can_ go over there. I’ve _earned_ that right, and I’m going to find out what the hell is going on!”

And then he hangs up on me.

Great. I’ve finally broken Elliot. Now what?

Sit by the phone and see what happens, I guess. So that’s what I do — I curl up on one of the wing chairs with the phone in my lap, thinking that I wish Lola was here to pet, and wait.

My brain is done. My body isn’t far behind. I feel a sort of fatalistic calm. Whatever’s going to happen, at least I’ll be able to remove one tenterhook from the dozen or so I’m currently stretched between.

I wonder how much of my current state has to do with fearing the loss of Alex’s affection, and how much can be chalked up to witnessing Armageddon.

I wish I had some pot, honestly.

If I can’t have Alex, I want a cat and a joint.

The phone rings. I glance at it — eighteen minutes have gone by. I push “talk” and tuck the phone under my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” says Elliot. “I’m at Alex’s. He’s got your box and he’s packing a bag. He wants me to tell you that he’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Okay?” I say. I can hear Alex in the background.

“He says he’s sorry. It’s entirely his fault. He changed his number last year. He gave Letitia the new one, but apparently it didn’t make its way into Frank’s Rolodex. The old number belongs to someone else now.”

“Oh,” I say.

“I think he’s ready now. He wants the phone.”

“Mary Sue?” It’s Alex.

“Alex.” I’m still trying to form a coherent thought beyond the one that says I get to take him to bed and press against him and sleep and it will feel so _safe_.

“Is there anything you need?”

“A friend,” I say. “You. I can’t tell you what’s going on, but I need you.”

“You have me,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

It takes him 25 minutes to get here.

I go outside when I hear the car drive up. The day was unseasonably hot, but it’s after dark now, and the temperature is dropping quickly. I cross my arms for warmth.

Still the same dark blue Pontiac.

Alex’s face lights up when he sees me, and several of my internal organs rearrange themselves. His hair is longer than I’ve seen it since way back when he first showed up on the set, and the grey at his temples isn’t makeup this time. He’s clean-shaven again. He’s wearing a blue button-down and a navy jacket, both of which are sadly rumpled.

He’s beautiful.

And I want him. Every bit of him.

We meet about halfway between the guest house and the car, and he puts an arm around my waist, and he cups the back of my head in one big hand, fingers tangling in my hair, and he kisses me.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

“Well, I’m here now,” I reply.

“Mmm. I suppose it would be rude of me to just carry you off to bed.”

“I should be heading in that direction anyway.”

“You have a time machine. How do you keep ending up in the past having had no proper sleep?”

“Poor planning. Which reminds me, did you bring my clothes?”

“Oh, that’s right — the bloody box.” Alex goes back to his car and retrieves the box from the trunk.

Inside the house, he drops the box in a chair and pulls me close. He kisses me again — softly, lips parted, the tip of his tongue against mine, tasting.

He rests his forehead against mine and sighs. “Okay — here’s what’s going to happen,” he says. “You’re going to take your sweet arse downstairs and brush your teeth and braid your hair, and I’m going to put a load of your clothes into the wash, so that you can have something to wear tomorrow that doesn’t smell like it’s spent the last four years in a box in my closet. Then I am going to meet you in the bedroom, and we are going to sleep.”

“You’re good at this,” I say.

He gives my sweet arse a squeeze and says, “Go on, now. You can tell me all about how wonderful I am in the morning when I underseason your eggs.”

“Fuck,” I say, halfway to the stairs. “I forgot to buy eggs.”

“I’ll figure something out. Go.”

I’ve brushed my teeth and am braiding my hair when I hear Alex quietly say, “What the hell?”

I assume he’s seen the bed. I tie off my braid and walk out into the bedroom. Alex is tossing pillows onto the floor. I grab my knapsack from the chair, pull out a clean pair of underwear, and head back into the bathroom with it. I strip down and jump into the shower. My hair’s too long and my scalp’s too dry to wash it often, but I like to at least have the rest of my body parts clean before I go to bed. Also, it’s been… four years since I emptied my menstrual cup. Not that I’ve actually bled, really. I have very short periods. I wash the cup and leave it on the shelf in the shower.

Alex comes into the bathroom, pees, then starts brushing his teeth.

It’s weirdly calming — getting ready for bed together, each of us used to the other’s routine.

Just last night, we did much the same. I wonder what it’s like for him. Does he feel a sense of familiarity? Does he have to think about these casual intimacies, or are they automatic?

I step out of the shower, towel off, and pull on the pair of clean panties I brought in with me. Alex finishes brushing and picks up my t-shirt.

“I’ll never fit into it,” he says. Sometimes, at the cabin we’d “accidentally” wear the wrong shirt to bed, but that was four years ago and women’s t-shirts have gotten more fitted. I take it from him and put it on.

He touches my cheek. “I just want to wash up too,” he says. “I’ll be along in a second.”

“Okay,” I say.

The bed’s been divested of all but four pillows, and the covers have been folded back. I climb in and I’m asleep about three seconds after I’ve pulled the blankets up and snuggled down. I surface from sleep briefly when I feel Alex cuddle up behind me.

 

 _The first weird thing I notice is that I can_ _’t find Lola. I’ve never had a real problem with him getting out. He’s purely an indoor cat and being where there are no ceilings freaks him out. But I can’t find him anywhere and I’m late for work._

“ _Kitty kitty kitty,” I call, and I listen for him. Nothing, not even the neighbors’ TVs or stereos._

_I have to go._

_I call Trent on the way to work. Maybe he knows where Lola is, but he doesn_ _’t answer and the call never goes to voicemail._

 _At work, there_ _’s no one. I try to make everything by myself, but I’m slow and clumsy. We’ll never have enough food. I finally finish one tray of lopsided scones. I take them to the front. It’s daylight. We should be open, but there’s nobody here. None of the day shift showed up. I open the bakery even though we have nothing to sell but a tray of scones. Maybe I can bake a pie._

_Fred comes in._

“ _It’s too late, Mary Sue,” he says. “You failed. You’re going to have to close. You came back too late, so they all left.”_

 _He leaves the bakery and I try to follow him, but there_ _’s nobody out there — no people walking around, no traffic._

 _I failed. They went away. I_ _’m the only one left._

I wake up crying.

I can still feel Alex behind me. I raise my head up a little so that I can see the clock — 3:18.

I wriggle across the bed and get up to pee.

On the way back, I go to the window and pull back the curtain a little, reassuring myself that L.A. is still there.

“Can you tell me?” Alex asks, coming around the end of the bed and pulling me against his chest.

“No,” I say. “I wish I could.”

“Is there anyone you can talk to?”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Tell me what to do,” he says.

“This,” I say, rubbing my cheek against his breastbone. “Only — lying down.”

He leads me back to the bed. He pulls my shirt off, then his own and his boxers. I take the hint and shuck my panties.

We climb back into bed and hold each other, kissing, mouth to mouth, skin to skin.

It feels like we’ve both swum the seas to be here. This is impossible. I don’t belong here, but there’s no place I belong more. I want the future so much. I want to go home and have the Earth be okay, and L.A. and Kalamazoo, and all of the people I know and love.

And Alex.

I want to have the long conversations where we figure out how we’re going to be together. I want to negotiate our contract. I want sex and understanding and affection. I want to feel the kind of safety and freedom that I feel with him. I want the way he shares himself with me.

Four years.

He treats this like a homecoming, his hands and mouth on my body, re-memorizing the familiar, kissing the mark he left on my shoulder with great tenderness.

My safe harbor seeking his own safe harbor.

So I welcome him, straddle him, guide his cock home. He bends his knees and I lean back and recline against his thighs, watching him watch me. He places his thumb against the hood of my clitoris, presses gently, rhythmically, presses me to the root of his cock. He talks to me — that low growl, that nearly subsonic, intimate sound — “God, Mary Sue. Yes. Show me. Spread your legs and show me.” He strokes the inside of my thighs. “God, you’re so wet. I can feel it on my cock, all the slick, all the sweet juice. Are you close? Are you going to come?” He’s grinding his cock into me now. “Are you going to come with my cock stuffed in your quim?”

I mean, when he does that, when he talks like that with that voice, how can I not?

He reaches up and pulls me forward, against his chest. He rolls us both over and thrusts, and I come again when he does.

 

When I wake up in the morning, Alex isn’t in bed. He’s turned the stereo on though, and I can hear _Morning Edition_ — Something about finding Blackbeard’s ship. Which gives me a strong case of _d_ _éjà vu_ , since I no doubt listened to the exact same story two years ago.

I throw back the covers. Alex’s t-shirt is still between my legs.

Yeah, that’ll need washing today.

I see that Alex has left me some clean clothes at the end of the bed — a black t-shirt and one of my Indian skirts in purple ombré. There’s a fresh bra and panties too. I take them into the bathroom with me.

Once I’m washed up, combed out, and dressed, I head upstairs. Alex has made tea, bless him.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Frank gave me some eggs.”

“Starved,” I say, taking the mug of tea he offers me — Irish Breakfast with lots of sugar and milk — and sitting on a stool on the other side of the kitchen counter. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Today, I am entirely at your service. Tomorrow, however, I teach a workshop on stage combat.”

“You’re teaching?”

“Clearly.”

“Do you enjoy it?” I ask.

“It keeps my hand in, I suppose.” He busies himself with cracking eggs.

“You don’t like it.”

“It isn’t unpleasant. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Well, you know,” he says. “Those who can, do. And those who can’t, teach.”

“Bullshit,” I say.

“Perhaps. But in my case, it seems to hold true.”

“Alex…”

“Stop,” he says. “You knew this was how it would be. That’s why you felt guilty about preventing me from going to London.”

He’s not wrong.

“ _Te absolvo_ ,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

The thin shell of cynicism has continued growing into a thick layer of bitterness, I see.

I watch him add not quite enough salt and pepper to the eggs, along with a splash of milk.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

I bite my lip and wait. He puts the milk back in the fridge and gets the butter.

“Laurence Olivier,” he says. “That was the first real role I’d had in three years. And I only got it because I can ‘do the accent.’ I haven’t been offered anything but bit parts since. And nothing at all for the last year.”

He turns on the stove and sets a pan on the burner to heat.

“I can’t decide if it was kinder of you not to tell me that this is what my life would become.”

“Kindness wasn’t a factor,” I say. “I never told you your future because that could destroy the lives of the people I’m trying to save. You need to make your own decisions with as little influence from me as possible. Plus, I don’t know the details. I really don’t like to pry into other people’s lives.”

“But you know the broad outline.”

“I know you’ve had very little work. I know you’re unhappy. And Frank told me about the play.”

“I suppose he also told you about the house?”

I nod.

“Did he tell you that the play only got two reviews?” asks Alex. “And both of them referenced Grabthar’s fucking hammer in the lede?”

“He said it didn’t get the attention it deserved,” I say. “That pan is getting too hot.”

He turns off the flame and stands, staring at the stove for a few moments.

“What did you think of me, when we first met?” he asks, finally. “Did you think I was arrogant? Did you think about how life would eventually take me down a peg or two? Did you pity me?”

“I thought you were sexy in a nerdy sort of way — until you opened your mouth. The word ‘arrogant’ may have crossed my mind. Then I watched your tests — I remember thinking that your self-assessment was a valid one, at least when it came to your talent, and that in a just world you would never have cause to seriously question it. And I wondered if you would ever really appreciate the impact of your performance on us… on the fans. Or if you’d always see us as the people who destroyed your career.”

“I loved playing him,” he says. “There was so much there. And he’s good… you know, not in a facile way, but in a thoughtful, deliberate way. I admired him. I was proud of the work I’d done, and moved by the reactions of the fans — the letters they’d send saying how much they loved Dr. Lazarus, how he’d touched their lives. But over the years, it seems people stopped seeing the heart of the character and began to see a… mascot. It’s bad enough that he’s the only character I’m to be allowed to play — it’s unbearable that he’s been reduced to a rubber head and a catch-phrase.”

I slide off my stool and go around the counter to where he’s standing. I put my arms around him. He leans back against the counter, pulling me with him. He strokes my hair.

“Do you know how long you’ll be here?” he asks.

“About two weeks, I think.”

“Alright then. I’ll stop wasting time fretting over my misery now.”

“Do you have someone else you can talk to?” I ask.

“ _Touché_ , madam.” He kisses me. “So, what are our plans for today?”

“You’re going to finish making those eggs, then I’m going to put some salt on my portion and eat it with toast.”

 

We end up going shopping. We get some more sensible food. This is mostly thanks to Alex, as I’m still distracted.

My mind just keeps returning to that first evening at con. Subjectively, eight months had already gone by between my arrival at the hotel and the point when I finally remembered that Cece would be looking for me. Almost four months have gone by since then. Not to mention all the times my memories got not-entirely-erased and overwritten. But I’m sure she said that Guy Fleegman had been the emcee. I also remember seeing the cast at the autograph tables, but it was crowded, and the only ones I’m sure of are Alex, Gwen, and Fred. And I already know they aren’t who’s missing.

I try to remember if I’ve actually clapped eyes on either Guy or Tommy at Quest Con 18. It doesn’t help that my last memories of con took place before the three months I spent in Lake Tahoe. That whole Saturday is a blur of meeting up with Cece, Shondra, and Darius, catching cat naps, solving secret codes left to me by Alex, and half-naked cosplayers shaking their credits-makers.

But I wouldn’t have seen the cast on Saturday, would I? My third time trip took place at nine-thirty that morning. According to Fred’s account, the cast left from a nearby electronics store opening at about ten-thirty. They were out saving the Thermians all day.

They didn’t have any events at con until the closing ceremony on Sunday.

No, wait. Fleegman did. He was supposed to be the emcee for some of the events in the music room. Cece mentioned that he’d disappeared with no notice.

Guy was there for the opening, but not for Mank’Nar karaoke. That fits with the timeline.

So Tommy wasn’t there?

Come to think of it, why is Tommy ever there? Didn’t his mom go out of her way to make sure he’d trained for a career in something other than show business? Last I knew, he was getting his bachelor’s in design of some sort. But I know he shows up at every con, not just Quest Con either — GalCon and some of the multi-fandom cons too.

“What do you think?” Alex is holding up a card with a length of wide, pink, satin ribbon wound around it. The card says, “3 yds.”

We’re getting groceries at one of those huge discount stores that has everything from milk to sewing notions. I have exactly two outfits not optimized for winter at Lake Tahoe rather than spring in L.A. So far, I’ve gotten a couple of long skirts and some t-shirts — both in shades of green and brown so that I can just keep wearing my brown sandals. Hopefully, I won’t be called upon to look like a responsible adult instead of the muffin-baking hippie that I am.

“Of ribbon in general or that one in particular?” I ask, trying to get my brain back to the place and time currently occupied by my body.

“Well, as I was saying, the bed at the guest house now has four sturdy posts along with all that wrought iron. One might be able to put such things to good use.” He waves the packet of ribbon, and I automatically spin a scenario where that ribbon is wound down his arms, like the laces of a ballet slipper, and tied in big, fluffy bows to the way-too-ornate headboard at the guest house — the skin on his chest blushing pinker than the ribbon.

“Your face,” says Alex, laughing.

“You know it does things to me when you offer to let me do things to you.”

“I didn’t know I was offering.”

“Get it if you want to,” I say.

He tosses it back into the bin though. He cups my head in his hands and says, “I don’t think I’d like not being able to touch you. I just, rather selfishly, wanted your attention.”

I turn my head a little and place a kiss against the warm skin of his wrist.

“It’s a tricky thing to get, I know,” I say. “I tend to space out.”

He drops his hands and shrugs a little. “You’re preoccupied.”

Shit. Another thing I should probably tell him.

“Yeah, about that.” I take a deep breath. “I have Attention Deficit Disorder. Preoccupied is my default mode. I’m having particular trouble not focusing on my current puzzle, even though I know that I’m not going to get any further without more information, and it’s one of the few things they don’t carry here.”

Alex takes my hand and we continue moseying through the store. “You’re bracing yourself.”

“I’m—”

“Don’t deny it. I’ve seen you do it too many times. When you told me that you’re a fan, when you told me about your writing, when you told me that you’re polyamorous. Each time, I’ve wondered just how much stupidity you’ve had to put up with that you can’t even bring yourself to hope that I’ll do better.”

“I tend to expect the worst. That way, I don’t have to add disappointment to the pile of negative things I’m feeling, and conversely, I can add pleasant surprise to the positive feelings if everything goes well.”

“It’s a philosophy, I suppose,” he says. “So what do most people say?”

“Oh, you know — it’s not real. It’s just TV or video games or computers or the Internet or just our ‘general culture of instant gratification.’ Some think it’s a nefarious plot to sell pharmaceuticals — which is especially stupid in my case, since I can’t even take the drugs that are usually prescribed for my condition. Those tend to be the worst, by the way. They’ll proselytize forever about teachers drugging any kid with an active imagination. Because teachers prescribe drugs now apparently. And because amphetamines kill creativity according to people who never watch rockumentaries.

“Sometimes people will point to my bouts of intense focus as proof that I don’t have ADD, not understanding that those are also a symptom. Or they’ll say that I can’t have it whenever I do something that’s different from what they think is typical for people with ADD.”

“Such as being very neat.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I say. “My case is moderate. If I can keep my environment organized, that helps alleviate my other symptoms. People don’t see the little tricks I use to keep myself on top of things, though.”

“The lists and the notes,” he says.

“Yeah, like the lists and the notes. I didn’t know you knew about them.”

“Mary Sue, you read them out loud when you’re thinking.”

I mean, he’s got a point. I do that. I just thought I was doing it quietly.

“And,” he goes on, “I’ve watched you refer to your PDA whenever we’re cleaning. I assume that’s so you don’t forget anything.”

He knows what a PDA is. Fuck. I should never have let him see it.

“Yeah,” I say. “And it keeps me from stressing about having to do everything perfectly right now. If I see something that needs doing, and it’s not on the list, I can add it for later rather than waste time on it and not get the other stuff done.”

“What else?”

“You mean like, what else do I do to compensate? Or what other odd behaviors can be chalked up to ADD?”

“Both. Either.”

“I drift off — you’ve seen that. It’s like my… will gets switched off. I stop focusing on anything that requires logical thought, and I just drift on sensations and warmth and contentment.”

I think about it for a minute. “Or the opposite can happen — too much thinking and striving, my mind racing down a hundred different paths at once, and I get overloaded by choices. Or I latch on to one something I’ve decided that I need to have or do, and I can’t let go or reevaluate.

“It’s especially bad when another person is involved. I have a hard time reading people if I’m thinking about it too much. So I’ll do something wrong, often when I’m working hardest to do it right, then my brain just starts scrambling to find the right way to fix it. That got turned up to eleven after the whole thing with me marrying Kevin. It’s still at like, seven, and I’m sure it was closer to five before.

“And I feel things… wrong.”

“Wrong?” says Alex.

“Too much or too little,” I say. “Or I just react badly to certain things — like how I panicked last night when I thought… when I couldn’t get in contact with you. Or the ‘bracing,’ as you put it.”

“That doesn’t seem—”

“Doesn’t that make it seem like I don’t trust you?”

“I can see how it might,” says Alex. He’s stopped walking, and he turns to face me. “But it doesn’t. You have sensitive spots — we all do — because we’re human. I’ll admit, sometimes they’re in unexpected areas, but there’s nothing _wrong_ about that.”

“I’m sorry I keep springing this shit on you,” I say, “I usually have a schedule for disclosing my oddities.”

“Before you can get invested.”

“Or before they can. Why should I waste time on people who are going to hate me? Look at what happened with Kevin.”

“The fault lay with him, not you,” says Alex.

Once again, I feel that wave of guilt over the idea that what I escaped, someone else has had to suffer. Reluctantly, I file it away under “Things to Look Into When I’m No Longer in Danger of Causing the End of the World.”

We take my purchases to the register.

Back at the guest house, I make arrangements with Frank and Elliot to have lunch tomorrow. I’m hoping they know something about Tommy Weber and what he’s up to these days, but for now I just try to set it aside. Going over and over it isn’t making progress — it’s just me trying to calm my considerable — and justified — anxiety.

Besides, as Alex pointed out, we don’t have tons of time together.

So we hang out. We talk about whether or not _Les Mis_ _érables can be considered an opera, our favorite words, our least favorite words, what a weird phrase “least favorite” is, milk chocolate versus dark chocolate, American chocolate versus British chocolate, whether there is any drink more disgusting than the Shamrock Shake, and who gets to wear The Nightgown next._

“I mean, I washed it,” I point out. “And you can wear it anytime.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t though. It’s not the same.”

“Then you’re not doing a fetish correctly. The whole point is to transfer your sexual attraction to the object entirely.”

“Ah, but I’m not sure my fascination could be considered a fetish at all, since it’s primarily tactile,” he says. “Fetishes are usually more visual in nature.”

“Look,” I say, “just because you can say stuff in the voice of ultimate gravitas doesn’t mean you get to just make up your own facts.”

“Please?”

“Oh, fine. If you’re going to ask like that, how can I say, ‘no?’”

 

_I'm trying to get to work, but I’m so slow and clumsy. I can’t find any clothes that match, and I keep getting distracted. I’m late. I’m going to get fired. Finally, I decide to go in just my skirt. Hopefully nobody notices. I’m about to walk out the door when the attack starts. The stairs buckle and sway under my feet. There are big silver spaceships shooting lasers at the ground._

“No!”

I wake up. I’m sitting up, reaching for something. Clearly, that “no” was uttered out loud. It woke Alex. I’m breathing hard and shaking.

Alex gathers me into his arms and lays us both back down. He still has the nightgown on, and I can feel the silk of it under my cheek where I’m lying on his chest. I put my free arm around his waist and curl into him.

“Just a little tremor, darling,” he says. “I know you’ve felt worse.”

“I know,” I say so that I’m saying something.

“I had a nightmare too,” I explain.

He squeezes me a little tighter, then brushes my hair back from my face.

“You’re safe now,” he says.

I don’t argue with him. I just let what we both know is a completely baseless assurance calm me back to sleep.

 

In the morning, Alex leaves right after breakfast. His first workshop doesn’t start until eleven, but he needs to stop at his apartment and pick up his mail and workout clothes. He teaches two sessions today — the second one won’t be over until three.

So I dig out the Palm and go over my notes again. Then I pace around the living room, having a nice chat with myself about which person I should be targeting.

At least with Alex out of the house, I can talk to myself in a normal tone of voice.

Unsurprisingly, I get nowhere, so I knock off around eleven-thirty and make a Cobb salad to take over to the main house for lunch with Frank and Elliot.

“It’s looking like the reason I’m here may have something to do with Tommy Weber,” I say. “Do either of you know what he’s doing these days? I haven’t seen him since ‘81.”

“He got a degree in some kind of graphic design,” says Frank. “You know, with computers.”

Well, that’s vague.

“He freelances designing websites,” says Elliot, “just enough to keep his mama from getting an ulcer. Most of his time is taken up with working on some SETI project.”

“He’s looking for aliens?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” says Frank. “The kid’s been bitten by the extra-terrestrial bug.”

Well, that’s not so fucking good. Depending on how much he wants to believe, Tommy could be very susceptible to persuasion or intimidation by a big green man from outer space like, say, Gath’gor.

Maybe.

Or maybe he’d be skeptical about Gath’gor’s legitimacy as an alien, or about Gath’gor’s reliability as a source. Where there’s one alien, there’s others, and those others may not have the same read of the current galacto-political situation as Gath’gor. Hell, he may not even be an accurate representative of the Fatu-Krey for all Tommy would know.

The truth is I don’t really know Tommy. He was nine when I met him, and my interactions with him were limited by the fact that he had to study when he wasn’t on camera, and I’m a boring old lady who doesn’t really care that much about the pursuits of nine-year-olds. So I know nothing about how Tommy thinks.

“If he’s designing websites, he must have one of his own,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Frank. “It’s on his business card. I’ll get it for you after lunch.”

“Great,” I say. “How do I go about getting Internet access?”

“There’s one of those cyber cafés down the street,” says Frank.

So after lunch, I have Elliot drop me off at a little group of shops and restaurants and one Internet café.

“How will you get home?” he asks.

“I’ll walk,” I say. “It can’t be over a mile.”

Elliot looks at me as if I just told him I was planning on taking a digital conveyor.

“Don’t be such a stereotype, Elliot. There’s a sidewalk the whole way. It rather implies that _somebody_ _’s_ walking.”

“Okay,” he says, a little reluctantly. “Call me if you need help.” He holds up his cell phone.

“Will do,” I say.

The café is pretty quiet. I assume it gets busier after school hours. Lots of kids like to do their surfing and email-checking (and caffeine ingesting) without nosy parents in the vicinity. I go to the counter and fill out the little card with a user name. I’m not thirsty, but I’m even less hungry, and most places will be very unimpressed if you use a table without getting a drink. At a dollar-fifty an hour to use a computer, they’re definitely making their cash from the menu. I order a Coke with a splash of vanilla syrup. The barista brings me my pop and a card with a temporary password on it.

I pay her five bucks for the Coke and my first hour of access. I put a buck into the tip jar.

There’s a couple of round tables with dividers separating the computers into little private work spaces, but there’s also tall tables with two computers per table along one wall. The seat in the corner is open, so I take that one. I like to be up high.

Tommy’s website is very nice — clean, professional, no MIDI Mozart. There’s a simple navigation bar on the right side of the screen. The center is taken up with a little bullet point list of services he provides.

Under “Interests” I find a link labeled, “SETI” and click on it.

I get taken to a page with a brief explanation of the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence programs and their history. A little grey alien pops his head up from the edge of the screen every now and then, looks around, is startled to notice you, then pops back out of view. It’s cute. It shows that Tommy can use animation in a fun way, rather than a relentlessly spinning logo way. There are numerous links to the websites of different SETI projects, including the one that Tommy is involved with, Life Signs. Life Signs is all about looking for “technosignatures,” which are any patterns that might be the caused by an advanced civilization — like radiation patterns that might indicate certain types of spaceships, or variations in the surface temperature of a planet that might indicate cities — that sort of thing.

I kind of sort of get it, but real space has never held the same fascination for me as fictional space. Real space just makes me feel a little too small and insignificant, you know?

But maybe that’s the point. If there are other people out there, and we can talk to them, maybe everything seems less impersonal and lonely.

I check out Life Signs’ website. It’s well-designed, but it’s text-dense, to say the least. By the time I check the clock, it’s almost three. According to the chalkboard menu, they sell floppy disks and writable CD's at the counter. I choose the floppy. Frank has a word processor that he swears will read WordPerfect files. I quickly copy-paste all the text on Life Signs’ site into WordPerfect, along with Tommy’s pages, then save them on the floppy.

Anything I know about SETI, I know from Trent. And whenever he’s happily going on about it, I’m off floating on clouds, but I am aware that there are mainstream groups and there are more… fringe groups. Before I go, I pull up Alta Vista and do a search for “seti life signs.” I want to see what their reputation is in the larger community.

The whole idea of technosignatures seems to be taken seriously — like they could be there, but will our equipment be able to see it? And Life Signs is seen as a respectable group — a number of pages refer to a call-in TV show by the same name that two of the members produce on their local station in Juneau, of all places. So Tommy hasn’t gotten himself in with a bad crowd. That’s nice to know.

I eject the floppy from the drive and sign out of the computer. I square up my bill and buy a cookie since I was here taking up space for over two hours.

When I get outside, I notice how bright it is. I’m going to get sunburned on the way back to Frank’s for sure. I consider just calling a cab, but I need the exercise, and there’s a clothing shop here. So I pop in and buy a pink and olive bucket hat, and, looking like a slightly more fashionable McLean Stevenson, I head on home.

After all that sitting, it feels good to just walk. I walk everywhere except the grocery store at home, and I got used to walking a lot in Tahoe. Besides, it helps me think, and right now I’m feeling like I’m hitting a dead end.

I mean, Gath’gor could have contacted Tommy and used his status as a bona fide extra-terrestrial to somehow… what? Convince Tommy not to go to cons anymore? Time will get broken in twelve days, and while I may not remember anyone saying that Tommy was at Quest Con 18, I know he’ll be at 16 in three months and 17 next year. I saw him at the opening ceremony both years.

Maybe Gath’gor just establishing some kind of relationship with Tommy is enough to break time? No. It would take way more than that.

I can’t put my finger on why, but I think I’m barking up the wrong tree.

Fleegman then? I know he was at con, but he could have decided to skip out after Friday night.

Again, that’s not changing time twelve days from now, is it?

Still, I’d better do some research on Guy this weekend. I decide that I’ll go over the files on the floppy in my knapsack tonight and try to find out what I can about Guy Fleegman tomorrow.

By the time I’ve come to this sorry excuse for a conclusion, I’m walking up the driveway. Alex is there, his back to me, leaning against his car and gazing down the hillside.

With the breeze blowing his hair every which way, he’s as lovely and brooding as a Brontë’s wet dream.

“Hey,” I say as I come around the car and into his line of sight.

“Hello.” He smiles at me.

I get the idea that, whatever it was that he was thinking about, I’m a welcome distraction.

I put my arms around his waist and lean my head on his shoulder. He returns the embrace, and we stand there like that for a few moments, both of us looking down on the neighbors. Finally, he tilts his head down and kisses me.

“You taste like chocolate and browned butter,” he says.

“I ate a cookie on the way home,” I say.

“It’s lovely.” He kisses me again.

“Why are you hanging out in the driveway?” I ask.

“You and Frank have the only keys, and neither of you were here.”

“Oh, that’s right! I forgot Frank had an appointment. I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t waiting long,” he says.

I unsling the knapsack from my shoulder and fish the keys out of the pocket.

“So what were you staring at so pensively?” I ask as I unlock the door.

“Nothing in particular. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” I toss my bag and my new hat on a chair.

“About how we should go downstairs and strip each other naked and lie down on that ridiculous bed and make love for the rest of the afternoon and, possibly, part of the evening as well.”

“Ambitious.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But I’d like to give it a try anyway.” He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. “Unless you have work you need to do?”

“A little,” I say. “But I can move it to after ‘Fuck Alex senseless’ on my To-Do list.”

“Thank you.” He strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers, then cups my head in his hands. He kisses my forehead, my closed eyes, my mouth.

I concentrate on the sensation of his strong fingers gently kneading my neck and the back of my skull, the soft glide of his mouth against mine, the edge of his teeth as he teases and nips my lower lip.

Alex is easy to concentrate on. It’s a weird thing to appreciate in someone, but I do appreciate it.

He makes my brain quiet.

Mostly.

“Mmm,” I say. “I want to wash up first.”

“I like you salty,” he says, slipping his hand under my shirt and tracing a finger through the sweat at the small of my back.

“I need to at least wash my feet. They’re all dusty from walking, and I don’t want to track that into the bed.”

 

After sex and dinner, I go over to the main house. Frank has a Sharp Font Writer word processor, which he said should be able to read my WordPerfect files. Why he doesn’t have a computer, I have no idea.

“Frank, why don’t you have a computer?” I ask. “You never struck me as a technophobe.”

“I do have one,” says Frank. “Tish took it with her.”

Oops. He hasn’t replaced it because that would mean she’s not coming back.

“Oh,” I say.

Anyway, the word processor opens the file just fine, and I sit and read. There’s nothing in the text on Tommy’s site to trip my alarms — it’s just boilerplate web design stuff. The only thing I can glean from it is that Tommy’s heart really doesn’t seem to be in it. Coupled with the visuals I saw at the café this afternoon, it’s very… staid. It appears to be targeted at businesses that recognize that they need some kind of web presence, but aren’t too happy about such new-fangled monkey business.

Honestly? I think Elliot was right — he’s just doing this to keep Ms. Weber off his back.

The Life Signs literature is full of some serious wonk, and I don’t really have enough of a background in science to completely understand every little detail, but it appears that the practicalities of searching for these technosignatures mean that the whole enterprise is mostly conjecture right now. Some guy in Moscow did a search for Dyson spheres (Holy shit! How cool would that be?) in the ‘80’s, but most of what they want to do requires waiting for instruments of sufficient sensitivity to happen, although some of the members are actively working on that particular task.

Which is all very interesting, but it’s getting me nowhere. I shut the word processor down and pop out the disk.

My eyes are burning from staring at monitors and LCD screens all day. I can hear the TV upstairs. I left Alex and Frank watching _Key Largo_ , but this doesn’t sound like _Key Largo_.

Turns out that’s because it’s _Sabrina_. Bogey and Audrey Hepburn are dancing cheek to cheek. How were people supposed to _not_ fall in love if they used to dance like that? I wish I could with Alex, but he’s too tall.

If you’ve never seen _Sabrina_ , it’s about a young woman who’s always been in love with the younger son of her dad’s boss. He’s more into the cosmopolitan and worldly type though. She runs off to Paris to learn to cook and comes back all sophisticated and charming. Little brother is smitten, but big brother wants him to marry someone else, so big brother decides to woo her. There’s a lot of pretty clothes and social dancing.

Frank is sitting on one end of the couch and Alex is in one of the armchairs. I take the other end of the couch, and we watch the end together. By the time it’s over, it’s after midnight, and Alex and I head back through the garden to the guest house.

“The movie is one of your favourites?” asks Alex.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I’ve always liked it,” I say. “I love ‘Beauty and the Beast’ stories.”

“ _La Belle et la B_ _ête_?”

“Now, that’s a favorite.”

“And the Disney version?” he asks.

“That too,” I say, “though maybe not as much. And I’ve probably read a dozen or so versions — Robin McKinley, Tanith Lee, the myth of Eros and Psyche. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved it.”

“Why?” asks Alex as we enter the house.

“Other fairy tales just… they hinge on things like physical beauty or industriousness or the ability to endure suffering of some kind. It makes love seem like a trade or a trial— he always has money and power, and she has a nice face or the ability to make him even richer or some annoying virtue like an ungodly amount of patience. And she always has to prove that she’s worthy of wearing fancy clothes and riding the royal dick in some really weird way, you know? ‘The Princess and the Pea’ — what’s special about having a back that’s easily bruised? How is that good or useful? Cinderella and Snow White — the princes don’t even know them. Cinderella’s prince can’t pick her out of a lineup, for chrissakes.”

“Getting kissed awake by a stranger doesn’t seem like much of a basis for a relationship,” says Alex.

“Right!” I say. “Beauty and the Beast get to know each other. They argue and talk and eat together. She becomes more than a pretty face to him and she learns to accept him for who he is. And that’s true love — time spent together and shared joy and shared sorrow. It’s seeing the other person and feeling so hopelessly tender, not because of their objective beauty or despite their lack of it, but because that person is the shape of what you love.”

I realize how… earnest I’m sounding here, and I turn away from Alex to lock the door. I can feel my face getting hot.

“In the Greek myth,” says Alex, standing right behind me, bending a little so that he can speak softly in my ear, “Psyche’s beauty isolates her from others and brings down a goddess’s wrath. In the Disney movie, the whole bloody village sings a song about how strange she is. She’s another oddity. They’re two outcasts carving out a place for themselves.”

I turn and look at him, and I’m caught. I can’t seem to look anywhere but into his warm, brown eyes.

I want.

I want to ask him to wait. I want to say that it will only be two more years, and I know it’s a lot, and it’s not fair that I don’t have to wait too, but just… please… wait.

But I don’t.

I smile a little, and I kiss him.

“Alex. The things you say sometimes…”

 

 _The ground curves upward ahead of me. I can see lakes and castles and forests going up and up and up until they reach the_ _“sky.” As soon as my brain registers that a Dyson sphere doesn’t actually work that way, I realize I’m dreaming._

_I force myself awake. Alex is standing by the bed._

“ _Sorry, Mary Sue. You’re too late.”_

I wake up for real, and immediately reach out for him. We’ve moved a little apart from each other. Alex is curled on his side, facing away from me.

I’m breathing hard. The feeling of dread and loss seems completely out of proportion to the content of the dream.

I roll toward Alex and put my hand on his waist. I can just make out the freckles on his shoulders in the moonlight coming through the window. I scoot closer until I’m smooshing as much of my body against his as I can manage.

He takes my hand and pulls it around himself until it rests over his breastbone.

“Bad dream?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I press my nose against his neck and breathe, and he smells like quiet comfort and soap and Alex.

He starts to hum a little tune. It takes me a second to realize that it’s “ _La Vie en Rose_.”

I like Alex’s singing voice, not that I hear it much, but I think he’s figured out that I find it soothing.

“Is it a favorite of yours?” I ask.

“ _Sabrina_ or ‘ _La Vie en Rose_?’”

“Both. Either.”

“No,” he says, “but _Sabrina_ _’s_ one of my mother’s favourites. She adores Audrey Hepburn. As for ‘ _La Vie en Rose_ ,’ it’s just one of those tunes that’s impossible to remove once it’s stuck in your head.”

I laugh and I can feel him laugh with me.

“I think I’d like the movie better if Linus wasn’t thirty years older than Sabrina,” I say. “Although I suppose the age thing is in most versions of the fairy tale. The Beast has been hanging around his cursed castle for a century or more.”

“Does the age difference bother you?” he asks.

“I think it’s different in the fairy tale because the Beast is sort of in a state of suspended development. He’s not out in the world, getting worldly like Linus. And the beast didn’t watch Beauty grow up. He wasn’t coming home from a long day as a master of the universe to find her skipping rope in the driveway. I’m not sure that I can believe that they’d be able to relate to each other as equals.”

“And you and I?”

Oh. That. I’m really managing to stick my foot in it today.

“I was quite a bit older than you when we first met, and when we started… seeing each other,” I say. “But I wasn’t even close to twice your age, let alone over it. I was aware of the gap, but it didn’t seem huge, especially since I didn’t expect to be anything to you other than a (hopefully) pleasant memory.”

“That’s not what happened though,” he says. “What do you expect now?”

I feel like I’m trying to catch a soap bubble here.

“I think we both know this isn’t… that anymore, but I really can’t expect anything.”

“I’m older than you now.”

It’s not a question, but I answer it anyway. “We were roughly the same age in Lake Tahoe.”

“And I’ll be older yet when I catch up to you,” he says.

“You won’t be that old,” I say.

“Not so old that you wouldn’t consider being with me?”

God, I want to consider it. I want to consider the hell out of it.

I _do_ consider the hell out of it, but I can’t tell Alex that.

“We’re both adults,” I say, “ and we’ve been on both sides of it now. If it ever mattered, it doesn’t anymore.”

I remember what he told me when I was here to save the con — I never asked your age. I’ve always had a crush on you.

And that was exactly the right thing, wasn’t it? Maybe, even though I can’t really imagine him being insecure about this, maybe he is, a little?

“I met you when you were twenty-five, and you were gorgeous, I’ll admit. But I’d already seen the grey hair, Alex, and the lines by your eyes, and the lines by your mouth, and that ever-deepening divot in your forehead, and I’ve always thought you were one of the sexiest men in the world.”

He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses my palm before placing it back over his heart.

 

The next day is Saturday. I’ve decided to see if I can find any info on Guy Fleegman.

I start with the phone book in Frank’s office. It only covers this neighborhood though. So, feeling a bit provincial for thinking that there was such a thing as an L.A. phone book, I decide to head back to the cyber café and see if I can find him in the online white pages.

Alex offers to come with me.

“It’ll be boring,” I say. “More boring than watching me fiddle around with the computer at the cabin because you won’t even be able to look over my shoulder.”

“You could give me something to read,” he says. “You must’ve written something over the last four years. Isn’t most fanfiction on the web now?”

“I have a couple, but I’m not showing you my page. I could load them onto a floppy though, and you could read them on another computer… if you want.”

“I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t.”

I honestly don’t know if he asks to read my stuff just to make me feel good — but it works.

It works _so_ well.

I buy another diskette along with my caffè mocha and a macchiato for Alex.

The café is busier today, but I manage to snag the same computer from yesterday. Alex takes the spot on the other side of the table. I start my session by going to my GeoCities page and copying two of the stories there — one is a story about Taggart and an older Laredo competing in an intergalactic demolition derby, and the other is about Tawny Madison finding herself feeling lonely after she retires only to eventually realize it’s because she no longer has the ship’s computer to talk to — and then pasting them into WordPerfect. After I remove any identifying information, I save them onto a diskette and hand it over to Alex.

Apparently, he knows his way around a computer well enough now to load the stories himself.

Having taken care of Alex, I proceed to look up anyone named Fleegman in California.

There are blessedly few.

Also, Guy is a guy, so he just has his name right there for everyone to see, unlike women who use their first initial, as if that doesn’t announce to the world that you’re a female living alone.

I don’t have my number even listed.

Anyway, I now have an address in Pasadena and a number.

What I’m going to do with that, I have no idea.

For someone who’s been pretending to be a private investigator for nearly a year, I know excruciatingly little about investigating. I wish there were someone I could just ask, but nobody seems to remember the poor dude. I barely remembered him when Cece mentioned that he was emceeing again this year.

Okay, there’s one person who kinda sorta knows him, but I can’t contact Cece, although I suppose Alex or Elliot can. I file it away as a last resort because the other thing I’m remembering is that he’s been emceeing the Mank’Nar Karaoke for awhile now — at least since Quest Con 16.

Which means that there should be a profile of him on the Quest Con website.

I pull it up.   

> Mank’Nar Karaoke (Sat. 3:00p.m - 5:00p.m.)
> 
> Master of Ceremonies — Guy Fleegman: Guy’s blood-curdling screams as he was burned alive by the enraged mother volcano in “Assault on Voltrex III” are certainly memorable. Since then, Guy has gone on to have roles in a number of TV series, including _The A-Team_ , _Tales From the Crypt_ , _Law & Order_, and _The X-Files_. He still remembers his time on _Galaxy Quest_ fondly though. “It was such a great show, and it had such a profound impact on people’s lives, mine included. I’m just proud to have been a small part of the _Galaxy Quest_ phenomenon, and I’m really grateful for the warm response I’ve always gotten from the fans.” When Guy isn’t onstage at Quest Con, he can be found at the Flying Saucer Inn in Pasadena, California, where he hosts the weekly karaoke competition.

I watched a few of those shows, but I don’t remember Fleegman on any of them. I check his IMDb page. Besides Crewman #6, his roles include Laundromat Clerk, One-Legged Zombie, Dead Acrobat #2, and Tall Alien.

I wonder who played Short Alien, because Guy’s not really all that tall, actually.

Anyway, the point is that Fleegman seems to have given up trying to break into television back in ‘94, and now he hosts karaoke (and, unless I miss my guess, tends bar) at a place in Pasadena.

I go back to the white pages and look up the Flying Saucer Inn. I enter the number and address into the contact list on the Palm. It’s nice finally being able to just whip this thing out in public. As long as I leave it in its case and don’t let anyone get a good look at the screen, it looks enough like a 1997 PalmPilot that no one bats an eyelash at it.

Now what, though?

I stare at the monitor for a minute, then I do the thing I always do when I’m staring at a computer with no idea what I want to do next — I check my mail. It’s a reflex.

And, yes, I know it’s not good that I haven’t changed my password in over two years, but I bet you haven’t either.

By the time I’ve logged into AOL, I realize my mistake, but I can’t resist clicking on the first email. It’s the feedback Trent sent me on “Passionate Kisses.”   

> Hey Babe,
> 
> It’s late and I know you won’t read this until you get up this afternoon, but I just wanted to let you know I love you.
> 
> AND I read your story. ; )
> 
> It’s really good. I loved your description of the room on the space station. I want to go there. We could turn off all the lights and watch that planet float by outside our window. <3 <3 <3 Other than that — well, it’s mostly stuff I don’t really have much opinion on. Don’t get me wrong — I think the story really works, even the tentacles, and you know I was skeptical. But the sex seems kind of overwrought and that’s half the story. I don’t know; maybe that’s the fun of it for people who like to read smutty fanfics? Because I see that a lot in that type of fic. But I guess I should leave that part to your expertise. You’ve read way more of it than I have.
> 
> Anyway, I made a few corrections — mostly punctuation stuff. Why do you hate semicolons so much?
> 
> See you tonight — T

I remember that night. I didn’t have work, and we walked to the Five Senses Garden and hung out there, talking about books that had been made into movies and which were our favorites. We agreed that _The Princess Bride_ was really good. I said I loved _Like Water for Chocolate_ , but Trent had never read it, so he couldn’t say how the film compared to the book. He’d liked _Jurassic Park_ , but I’d never read that.

We had a lengthy discussion about Phillip K. Dick novels versus the movie adaptations.

I really miss him, but then I’ve been missing him since way before I arrived at Quest Con 18.

“Mary Sue?”

I look up and see Alex peering around his monitor at me.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“You’re not typing or reading. And you look rather sad.”

“I opened my email without thinking,” I say. “It’s some feedback on a fic I wrote.”

“The person didn’t like it?”

“Hmm?” I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. I mean, he wasn’t wild about it, but I didn’t expect him to be. It’s not the sort of thing he’s really into.”

“What sort of thing is it?” he asks.

“An explicit sort of thing. It’s mostly sex.”

“Hang on. You’ve written an erotic story?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it possible for me to read it?”

“Maybe?” I say. “I think the file is attached to his reply.”

I click on the attachment and open it in WordPerfect.

“Hand me the floppy,” I say, holding out my hand.

We don’t stay much longer. I’m at an impasse again, and I need to call the Flying Saucer. So once I’ve saved the story onto the disk, marked the email as “unread,” and signed out of the computer, we head back to Frank’s.

As we’re making another round of fancy grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, Alex asks, “So if it wasn’t the content of your mail that made you look so lost, what was it?”

“You know, your prodigious ability to remember things can be just a little unfortunate.”

He raises his eyebrows at me expectantly.

“It’s Trent, one of my boyfriends,” I say. “Things have been… awkward between us for some time now, and I don’t know why. That email was written at a happier time.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” says Alex.

“Really? I mean, most people would be thrilled to know that a rival may soon be quitting the arena, so to speak.”

“True. And I admit I feel a bit of that as well. But I’ve been reading about polyamory and I understand that you see things differently, and that you would be troubled by that attitude.”

I set down the avocado I was slicing and look at Alex.

“That’s… You’ve been reading?” I say. “About polyamory? Because of me?”

“Well, of course because of you.”

“And you’ve come to the conclusion that I wouldn’t like it if you saw Trent as some kind of barrier between us? You’re allowed to feel what you feel, Alex.”

“I know,” he says. “And I still don’t think I’d like it if you were seeing someone else while you were seeing me, but I can’t find it in me to rejoice over something that clearly hurts you.”

Well. Did I really think he could? I kinda made it sound that way, didn’t I?

“I’m sorry that I implied that you would,” I say. “And I’m sorry to be bringing up my problems…” I stop. Losing Trent hurts. And not knowing what happened scares me because how can I know if I’m doing it again? “This has been going on for so long that I’ve pretty much come to accept that it’s over. I just wish I knew why — what happened and why he can’t talk to me about it. What hurts me most is that I became someone he can’t talk to.

“Am I hard to talk to?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. I’ve probably told you more than I’ve ever told any other person,” he says. He strokes my arm.

“You have?”

He shrugs. “I trust you.”

 

The Font Writer makes a noise, letting me know it’s out of ribbon. I stop noodling and open a new cartridge.

I’m not unaware of the fact that I now owe the producer of _Galaxy Quest_ a new print cartridge because I’m running off a copy of my smutty fanfic on his word processor.

But here we are.

I’m nervous about showing this to Alex, of course, but not like I was when I showed him “All The Lonely Things.” That was the nervousness of showing an actor fanfic about his character.

This is the nervousness of revealing myself to someone I care about. On the one hand, I don’t believe he’ll actually react badly, but on the other hand, bracing myself has apparently become a habit with me, hasn’t it?

You know what will take my mind off it? Calling the Flying Saucer Inn and finding out when they have their karaoke contest.

I pick up Frank’s phone and dial the number.

“Flying Saucer Inn,” says a woman using Chipper Phone Voice, “— home of the world-famous Area 51 shooter.”

I wonder what the hell’s in an Area 51 shooter.

Anyway — “Hi,” I say, also in Chipper Phone Voice (which I picked up while working the Mother’s Day call center for FTD). “Could you tell me when’s karaoke night?”

“We have a karaoke happy hour every weeknight from six to seven, the weekly competition runs from Monday to Wednesday eight to ten, and we open the mics up on Friday and Saturday at six.”

“Thanks!”

I call Elliot next.

“Hey,” I say. “How do you feel about karaoke?”

By the time I pull the last page out of the Font Writer and head upstairs, it’s about four o’clock, and I have a date with Elliot on Monday. Frank is watching another movie. I don’t recognize it, but he appears to have moved on to James Stewart.

“I don’t know this one,” I say. “What is it?”

“ _The Far Country_ ,” says Frank. “Jimmy Stewart drives cattle up to the Klondike.”

“That’s a hell of a drive.”

“Well, they take a boat from Seattle to Skagway.”

Never heard of it.

“Skagway?” I say. “Is that in Canada?”

Frank shakes his head. “It’s near Juneau.”

 _That_ I’ve heard of. That’s where the station the Thermians tune into is located.

…

…and where two nerds have a TV show about space.

…

Hehe

Heh

Okay, here’s the thing — how much better would it be if I got rid of Gath’gor for good? Yeah, I know it would mean no more trips where I get to see Alex, but it would also mean keeping everyone safe — at least until their big battle with Sarris.

If I could get a message to the Thermians, explaining that Gath’gor’s here and where to find him, they could… neutralize him somehow? Contact the proper authorities? I mean Laliari said that they couldn’t contact the authorities about Gath’gor because then they would have to confess that they had built a time machine because they don’t lie.

I, on the other hand, can lie my motherfucking ass off.

And the Thermians haven’t actually built a time machine _yet_.

There are a lot of variables. Do the SETI guys work at the right station? Will the Thermians get the signal in time? Will it jeopardize their already tenuous position? Can I convince these guys to send the signal? How do I disguise the message?

How do I find Gath’gor?

But, as I walk back to the guest house, I’m thinking maybe, just maybe, I have the beginning of a plan.

 

By the time I’ve gone back to the café and confirmed that the people looking for extra-terrestrials are doing their show on KBHR, the station that’s watched by extra-terrestrials (They are.) and checked to see if there’s a Steve Gagorian anywhere in California (There’s not.) and called Elliot to ask if he can come by in the morning (He can.) and just generally done a lot of muttering to myself and making notes on the Palm, it’s dinner time and then some.

“Turn it off now and come eat,” says Alex.

I sniff. Mmm, Chinese food. Mu shu pork, unless I miss my guess. I plug the Palm into its charging cable and follow Alex up the stairs.

The albums we had in Lake Tahoe were in the box with my clothes. He’s dug out the classical guitar one and put it on the turntable.

“Counter or ottoman?” asks Alex, pouring us each a glass of wine.

“Ummm ottoman,” I say, “unless you have a strong preference for the counter.”

“I don’t.”

I grab a couple of plates and a large spoon and go set the “table.”

Alex brings the food and the wine on a tray. I put the spoon into the pork and we sit down, each of us leaning against a chair. The evening is cool and Alex has lit the fireplace.

“Cozy,” I say. “Thanks for this.”

He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling up. “You’re welcome.”

“It’s probably been a pretty boring day.” I fill up a pancake. Whatever restaurant this came from, they do the extremely thin pancakes, so I’m being extra careful not to overfill mine.

Not that Alex hasn’t witnessed me catching half my dinner with my boobs by now.

“It’s not as if I’d be doing anything exciting at home. Besides,” he says, making an effort to shake off the negativity associated with whatever his usual Saturday routine consists of these days, “I got to read your erotica.”

Oh yeah, that.

“I believe the genre is more properly termed, ‘smut,’” I say.

“It’s not like you to belittle your work.”

“I’m not. ‘Erotica’ is just kind of a grandiose term — a label publishing houses use to let the delicate reader know that there’s fucking. Not your highbrow literary sort of fucking, but not your badly-spelled, generic ‘hot’ characters going through a series of ‘hot’ scenarios sort of fucking either. Erotica is the kind of fucking that involves petticoats and an anachronistically liberated heroine. ‘Smut’ implies that the fucking will not be delicate or intellectualized or somehow made fit for mixed company. It’s one of the things I love about smutty fanfics. Most of them love sex. Most of them are about sex that has context and emotion and meaning, unlike mainstream porn, which is…”

“By men?” says Alex.

“Not to put too fine a point upon it, but yeah. It’s not that I don’t think men feel things about sex or find it meaningful, but it’s not something you’re supposed to talk about, is it?”

“No, not like that.”

“Men aren’t supposed to talk about the emotions and women aren’t supposed to talk about the fucking,” I say, “but we’ve created this underground where we can. When the mainstream deigns to notice us, it’s to write us off as teenage girls and bored housewives, which really pisses me off — girls and housewives are people with thoughts and desires too, for fuck’s sake. Anyway, we don’t make money so we don’t count, and we can say what we want, how we want, about sex, love, or anything else. And that is truly capital ‘E’ Erotic even when it’s not about sex, even when the work is dark and painful and angry — the act of making it is life and light and love and creation and connection. _That’s_ what I’m trying to catch a piece of, let it fill me and spill out in words for whoever cares to read it.”

I stop, suddenly aware of how weird I’m getting.

But when I look at Alex, he’s smiling at me and his eyes are shining. “It’s exactly like that.”

“Yeah, acting feels that way too, I guess.”

“Yes, it does,” he agrees. Then he looks away and shakes his head. I think he’s going to say something else, but he just picks up his rolled-up pancake and eats, so I do the same. After all, I’ve only managed to get one bite, what with all the monologuing.

I’m filling my second pancake, and my brain is starting to wander off to how I’m going to find out who Gath’gor is targeting, when Alex speaks again.

“Why tentacles?”

“Why not tentacles?” I ask. “It’s a pretty common fan theory. Dr. Lazarus is a bit… fishy, you know.”

“A bit fishy?” he says. “What happened to ‘molluscine?’”

“I believe you’re sufficiently dazzled by my brilliance now. I don’t need to show off anymore.”

“True enough, but that still doesn’t answer the question. There are other fan theories, many of them just as… aquatic.”

“Are you trying to get me to admit that I think the tentacles are hot?” I ask.

“Well?”

“Fine. Tentacles are kind of hot. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he says.

“Are you weirded out?” I ask.

“Weirded…? No, nothing like that.” He’s laughing. “What I found most intriguing was that you wrote the scene from Lazarus’ point of view.”

“I wanted to write about a character who hasn’t had good sex before. I get a little tired of that thing where the sex is awesome purely because the participants are each others’ soul mates or whatever, but I like the idea that Lazarus has never had a really great experience because he’s never been with someone who wasn’t operating out of the same playbook. And he’s never asked for anything different because it would just be one more way that he feels separate from other people. The Mak’Tar have a narrow idea of how sex should go, and it’s just not very satisfying for Lazarus. With Chen — there’s no script — and Chen has had a wider than usual variety of experiences in bed, so he’s more improvisational and more… responsive, I guess, to how his lovers are reacting. He’s able to sort of create a space where Lazarus doesn’t feel that he has to behave a certain way or be labeled as ‘different’ again.

“And the reader doesn’t have tentacles either, so I can’t get it wrong.”

“Get it wrong?” asks Alex.

“There’s always somebody who wants to point out that women can’t write about sex between two men.”

“You can’t? Why not?”

“We have no idea how either penises or butts work,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“You don’t?” Alex snorts.

“Nope. Totally foreign territory. And if, by some miracle, we happen to get the mechanics right, we’ll probably screw it up by making it emotionally overwrought. Maybe that’s why I chose Lazarus. Nobody can tell me that I obviously know nothing about the inner landscape of a Mak’Tar. Well, except maybe you.”

“Your vision isn’t exactly mine, but I can see how you arrived at it. And I don’t think he’s ‘emotionally overwrought.’ Is that why your friend didn’t like the story?”

I shrug. “Stories that center around sex aren’t really Trent’s thing. I think he finds most writing about sex either dull or overwrought, quite possibly both.”

“So it’s nothing personal?”

“No. For the most part, he’s always liked my writing, but this is the first time I’d shown him any of the explicit stuff.”

“Why did you show him this one?” he asks.

“He’s a really good proof-reader,” I say. “I was about to submit it to a zine.”

“What made you decide to finally submit a piece of this nature?”

“I suppose I just finally wrote one I felt happy with. It was nerve-wracking though. Tentacles or no tentacles, there’s a lot of me in that story.” I shake my head. “There’s a lot of me in this conversation. I’m sorry, I’ve sort of monopolized it.”

“Not at all,” he says. “You’re really rather lovely when you’re excited about a subject.”

“You were trying to get me to go on and on?” I ask.

“It made you forget to worry for awhile, didn’t it?”

I mean, he has a point.

“So, what did you think of the story?” I ask.

I mean, enough about me, right?

“Oh, I liked it very much,” he says.

 

“I think I know how to stop Steve for good this time,” I say.

“Let’s hear it.”

It’s Sunday morning and Elliot’s come by the guest house. Alex has already left to check his mail and do whatever else needs doing at his apartment.

So I tell him about the 148 planets that would like to do to Steve whatever it is that they usually do to murderers. And how I might be able to get a message to at least one of them.

“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?” he asks.

I mean, it’s the obvious question.

“Even if I could have convinced someone at that station to send a message, I had no way of knowing if anyone was listening. I might have been able to do it in ‘92, but at that time I didn’t even know what country Steve was in.”

“And you know now?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

So I tell him about the fact that I know that Steve is targeting either Tommy Weber or a guy named Guy, and that I know the exact time and date that he’ll change time.

“Okay,” says Elliot. “Here’s what I think — I think your aliens need more than a working _Protector_ , they also need her crew.”

I nod. I mean, there’s no point in lying. It’s pretty obvious. “In the timeline I just came from, everyone is accounted for except either Tommy or Guy. One of them did something to save the lives of the others, but I don’t know what, and I don’t know which. If I can work that part out, I can pinpoint where he’ll be at a specific time, and maybe I can get someone to come arrest his ass.”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes.’”

“In order to stop him from doing whatever he’s planning to do, I’m going to have to figure out most of it anyway.”

Elliot sighs. “Where do we start?”

I grin at him. “Put me in contact with Tommy Weber.”

So Elliot makes some phone calls and sets up a lunch meeting with Tommy. I call Alex, and let him know that I’ll be out of the house until three or so.

Elliot and I spend the intervening time working out a story to tell Tommy.

And making me look old. I wear the ages-out-of-date green twill pants that Letitia gave me in 1992 and a tropical print blouse I picked up yesterday on my way back from my second trip to the cyber café.

I’m relying on Tommy still being young enough that everyone over 35 looks ancient.

The restaurant turns out to be a homey place specializing in dishes from Mexico and the Southwestern United States. Tommy gets there while we’re waiting for the hostess to seat us.

“Hey, man,” he says, shaking Elliot’s hand.

“Hey, Tommy.” Elliot gestures toward me. “Do you remember Mary Sue Zimmerman?”

Tommy turns and shakes my hand too, looking at me as if trying to place me. Suddenly he smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember you. You’re that scientist Frank hired to make sure all the props and sets and things looked right when we were making _Galaxy Quest_.”

“That’s me,” I say.

“Spiegel, party of three?” says the hostess.

“That’s us,” says Elliot.

“Right this way, please.”

Once we’re seated and our orders are taken (ceviche, no cilantro, and a Dos Equis Ambar for me), Elliot and I proceed to spin a tale about NASA’s Ultimate Scavenger Hunt.

In case you’ve never heard of it, (and why would you since I had just made it up?) the Ultimate Scavenger Hunt is an ongoing game played by various scientists, engineers and consultants at NASA who drop elaborate clues that lead to even more elaborate clues that eventually lead to Newton, the NASA Narwhal — a little metal sculpture of a narwhal once owned by Buzz Aldrin.

“This year, I’m on the committee running the hunt,” I tell Tommy. “And I want to plant one of the clues in the broadcast of ‘Life Signs.’”

“People at NASA are watching ‘Life Signs?’” Tommy seems pretty geeked.

“There’s still a lot of unofficial interest in SETI,” I say.

I mean, it’s probably true.

“Do you think the hosts would be cool with that?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, they’d love that. You want me to talk to them?”

“That’d be great!” I say.

“I knew I wasn’t being treated to a burrito just for my charm and good looks,” says Tommy.

“You can have the burrito for your charm and good looks, and I’ll spring for a flan for the favor.”

“Make it chocolate bread pudding, and you’ve got yourself a deal.” Tommy grins at me.

“Done,” I say.

“Okay,” says Tommy. “What kind of message are we talking about?”

And there’s the million dollar question.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say.

“Well, you’ve got until Wednesday to figure it out,” says Tommy. “They film on Thursday morning and it airs the following Monday.”

 

Alex has already gone to work by the time Elliot shows up the next afternoon. Karaoke doesn’t start until six, but Elliot wants to avoid the worst of the traffic, and I’m pretty sure that Guy does more than just emcee the weekly contest. If I’m right, he’ll be easier to converse with before he has to be onstage.

We get to the Flying Saucer at four. The place is unsurprisingly quiet.

And unsurprisingly kitschy.

It’s a paragon of Googie architecture, with an inverted “V” roof and purple doors and window frames.

Inside, the lower half of the walls are covered in shiny aluminum panels with a diamond pattern embossed into them. The upper part is ombré purple – grape near the paneling and black at the ceiling, which is covered in shiny silver stars and sparkly multi-hued planets. The walls are covered in framed film stills from various science fiction movies and TV shows. I can see _The Day the Earth Stood Still_ , _Forbidden Planet_ , _E.T._ , _Time Tripper_ , and _The X Files_. And, of course, _Galaxy Quest_ is in there as well. There’s a bunch of vintage metal wall decorations in that Atomic Age starburst shape and a big boomerang-shaped bulletin board with the karaoke schedule and a half-filled-in bracket for tonight’s contest. There’s also a head shot of Guy Fleegman above a little blurb introducing him as the emcee. He’s kind of cute without the mustache, actually.

There’s booths along two walls — each one with its own lava lamp on the table — and there’re tables with bent-plywood-and-tubular-steel chairs in front of the small stage.

Behind the boomerang-shaped bar stands Guy Fleegman, in the flesh. He’s wearing a black aloha shirt with a pattern of UFOs in various tropical colors and a black waist apron.

And he’s grown that awful mustache since the picture on the bulletin board was taken.

Elliot and I belly up. Guy comes over, smiling, and asks what we’ll have.

“What’s in an Area 51?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Peach Schnapps, Midori, Bailey’s—” I stop him there.

“What’s on tap?”

“Bud, Bud Lite, MGD…” He grins at the face I’m making. “There’s a local IPA, a Hefeweizen, and a Tripel from Colorado – that’s my favorite.”

I smile back at him. “I’ll take the Tripel and a plate of barbecue wings, please.”

Elliot shrugs. “I’ll have what she’s having,” he says.

“Coming right up,” says Guy. He pops his head into the passthrough window to the kitchen. “Two plates of barbecue wings, please, Maggie.” Then he proceeds to pull us two pints of ale.

“You been in California long?” he asks, setting the pints in front of us.

It takes me a second. I tend to forget that there’s a Michigan accent.

“About a year,” I say. “You?”

“Oh, I moved here right out of high school — looking to become an actor.”

“Well, this is the place to do it.”

“How about you?” he asks. “Are you here to see your name in lights?”

“Hardly,” I say. “I’m a writer. I’d settle for seeing my name in print.”

“What do you write?”

“Science Fiction, but I’ve been getting into screenplays. Elliot here has been teaching me.”

Guy looks at Elliot intently. “Elliot? Elliot Spiegel?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Elliot.

“I thought I recognized you!” says Guy. “You wrote for _Galaxy Quest_. You and Rosalin Leon.”

“Yup,” says Elliot. “That’s me.”

“Oh man! That’s awesome!” says Guy. “I was on _Galaxy Quest_ once. It was really just a small role. I got killed by a lava monster.”

“’Assault on Voltrex III?’”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s the one!”

Guy is beaming at Elliot.

“Were you the crewman who said, ‘It spoke to me… the volcano… it was in my mind?’”

“No,” says Guy. “I was the crewman who said, ‘Ahhhhhhhhh.’” He does a quiet mock scream while waving his hands like an anemic T. Rex.

“Too bad,” says Elliot. “I wrote the bit about the volcano. I think ‘Ahhhhhh’ was Ros.”

We all get a laugh out of that, and then Guy says, “Man, I really loved that show.”

“Me too,” says Elliot.

Down at the other end of the bar, a customer raises his hand, and Guy excuses himself to go wait on him.

“You set me up,” says Elliot.

“I wanted an excuse to talk to him about the con without letting him know that I’m a fan,” I say.

“What are you hoping to find out?”

“I have no idea, but I’ve gotta start somewhere. He’s already booked for the con, maybe knowing how he got the gig would help.”

“Order up!” says a voice that I assume belongs to Maggie The Cook. Guy finishes up with his other customer and heads to the passthrough window.

“Well, here’s your chance to chat him up,” says Elliot.

But Guy’s keen to chat with Elliot.

“You know, I saw Rosalin Leon do a Q and A at Quest Con once,” says Guy. “It was great. You should come and speak some time.”

“I’ve considered it,” says Elliot. “The timing has never really worked out.”

“I hope you do. Quest Con’s a hoot.”

“You’ve been there often?” I ask.

“A few times,” says Guy. “I’m working there this year.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m going to be hosting the Mank’Nar karaoke contest.”

“The what?” I ask. “People dress up like Mank’Nar and sing?”

“Even better. They dress up like Mank’Nar and sing _in Mank’Narese_.”

“What do they sing?” asks Elliot.

“Anything,” says Guy. “Last year, two ladies won with a translation of ‘Dancing Queen.’”

Oh god. I remember that. They wore traditional female armor, but they had on huge sparkly bell-bottoms instead of the usual Mank’Nar battle pants. Also, there’s no word for “queen” in Mank’Nar, so she was the “Dancing Honored Lady Warrior” instead.

“That does sound like a hoot,” I say.

“It’s a really popular event,” says Guy. “I was lucky to get tapped for it. A couple of the folks who run the con saw me here a few months ago and one of them recognized me.”

“Kismet.”

Guy laughs. “Yeah, I guess so.”

A server (in the same aloha shirt as Guy) shows up at the wait station and Guy excuses himself again to go take her orders.

“Did you learn anything useful?” asks Elliot.

“Not really,” I say. Why did I come here? I suck at this.

Have I made even an inch of progress? All I’ve learned is that Guy seems pretty enthused about emceeing at the con. It seems unlikely that he’d drop out without some kind of pressure.

And, of course, he’s there right up until he would have left with the others anyway. So what’s going to happen a little over a week from now to change events that take place a little over two years from now?

For that matter, what could happen to Tommy that would have the same effect?

I got nothing except the feeling that I’m missing something. And the feeling that I’ve gotta pee.

“Listen,” I say. “I’m off to the little girls’ room.”

Elliot just nods and nibbles on a wing.

The bathroom is at the end of a short hallway that runs between the kitchen and the manager’s office. It’s just as delightfully tacky as the rest of the place. There’s a light fixture shaped like a flying saucer and a big boomerang-shaped mirror over the sinks. Inside the stall, there’s a painting of a little green alien peeking under the door.

All-in-all, an entertaining place to piss.

On the way back from the bathroom, I take a look at some of the art on the walls — more film stills, this time from _Lost in Space_ , _Babylon 5_ , and _Voyagers!_ Time travel — it’s so easy to fix a timeline that any reasonably precocious child could do it.

Next to that is a framed news article. “Abandoned Pasadena Landmark Home to New Business,” reads the headline. “Greg Gaffin (left) and Bruce Decker (right) will open a space-themed bar in the building that once housed the Laundro-Rama,” says the caption under the accompanying photo. I don’t want to call attention to myself by standing here and reading the whole thing, especially since one of the two businessmen smiling smarmily in the photo... is Gath’gor.

Except he’s going by “Greg Gaffin” now.

I note the date of the article — August 19, 1995 — and head back to the bar.

“We need to go,” I say to Elliot.

“What? Why?”

“Because Steve owns the bar,” I say.

“You’re kidding me,” says Elliot.

“Nope, and he knows what both of us look like. We need to go.”

“Mary Sue, wait a sec. We might be able to get some information about him.”

I mean, he’s not wrong.

“Okay,” I say. “But let’s make it quick.”

Elliot polishes off his beer, prompting Guy to come back and ask if he wants another.

“Thanks anyway,” says Elliot, “I’m good. Maybe you could settle a little disagreement for us though.”

“Umm, sure,” says Guy, looking very uncomfortable.

“Nothing serious,” I say. “It’s just that I was telling Elliot that this used to be the office for a used car lot, but he says it was a laundromat.”

Guy’s smile is decidedly relieved. “You’re both right,” he says. “It was built as a laundromat, but it went through a couple of incarnations before it was bought by Crazy Sam’s in the eighties. They went out of business in ‘87, and this place was empty for over seven years before the current owners bought it.”

Actually, I was just guessing about the used car lot.

“Well, they did a great job,” I say. “This is so unique. What made them decide on a sci-fi theme?”

“That was Mr. Gaffin’s idea,” says Guy. “According to Bruce, he insisted on it along with having karaoke. Except for that, he’s been pretty hands-off though.”

“So Gaffin’s the idea man?” asks Elliot.

“I guess you could say that,” says Guy. “Bruce did most of the decorating, and he oversees the day-to-day operations. Mr. Gaffin’s more the money guy, I think. He’s hardly ever here except for Friday and Saturday nights.”

Jesus, Guy. You’re going to get fired if you keep that up. Loose lips sink ships and all that.

But thanks — it’s something anyway.

Elliot and I discuss what we’ve managed to learn as we crawl back to Hollywood. We may have avoided traffic on the way to Pasadena, but it’s in full swing by the time we head home. I suspect that a big part of Elliot’s skylark sleep schedule is about avoiding getting stuck in traffic. I bet he loses a couple millimeters of tooth enamel on this trip.

“Well, it can’t be a coincidence, Steve being Guy’s boss,” says Elliot.

“Sure it can,” I say. “We don’t know if Steve’s even the one that hired Guy. He could be totally oblivious to the fact that the person working for him is one of the people who plays a part in the events he’s trying to prevent.”

Elliot looks skeptical. “He has to know their names, and ‘Guy Fleegman’ is not a name you encounter every day.”

He has a point there. I bite my lip.

“On the other hand,” I say, “it looks like Guy’s been working there awhile. His head shot was getting curled at the edges. So if Steve is going to eliminate him, why hasn’t he done it yet?”

Elliot blows out a long breath. “We’re still missing too much information.”

“The hell you say. None of this makes sense.”

“Maybe if you told me more, I could help you.”

I look at Elliot, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

I can trust Elliot, right?

And two heads are better than one, _et cetera._

“I’m at Quest Con 18.”

“Huh?” he asks.

“That’s where I was… recruited, I guess, into this… thing.”

“Okay.”

“Last night, after my first trip to the past, I spent some time with a friend who would no doubt have had the National Guard out looking for me if I hadn’t checked in with her. She told me that I had missed a great opening, and that Guy Fleegman had been the emcee.

“Now, everything that happens with those aliens I told you about — that’s all happening the weekend of Quest Con 18 too. What can Steve possibly do a week from now that’s going to make Guy drop out in the middle of a con two years from now?”

“What could he do that would make Tommy drop out?” asks Elliot.

“That’s just the thing,” I say. “I have no proof Tommy was there. I didn’t see him when I passed through the main room, and no one’s mentioned him.”

“But he’s going to be at 16 and 17?”

I sigh. “Yes. Like I said, none of it makes sense.”

Traffic lightens a bit and Elliot is quiet as we drive on.

When we get to Frank’s, there are no other cars in the driveway. I check the dashboard clock. Almost seven. Alex should be back any second now.

I turn to thank Elliot, but before I can say anything, he speaks.

“What’s at stake, Mary Sue?”

“Oh, you know, countless lives — same old same old,” I say.

He turns toward me. “Then why are you so shaken up this time, if it’s just the same old same old?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Don’t play stupid,” he says. “I know better. Alex is worried about you. So’s Frank. They’ve both asked me to talk to you.”

Peachy.

“I’m not sure that talking about this will help, Elliot. There’s nothing you or anyone can say that will make this less…” Horrific? Terrifying? “…difficult.”

All it will do is make you afraid too.

“I think the idea is that it would make it less ‘difficult’ if you could just unburden yourself a little.”

“Elliot… thank you. If this was a problem that needed solving, you’re the first person I’d turn to, but it’s not. And, honestly, it’s a big distraction from what I need to do to prevent it.”

And saying it out loud will only make it more real.

Elliot takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“If you change your mind…” he says.

I nod and squeeze his hand back.

 

_It's an old dream — it’s winter and I’m driving down Drake Road. I’m driving down the big hill where it meets KL Avenue. It’s winter and the road is icy. I’m braking in little pulses — trying to slow down without fishtailing. It’s not working, or it’s not working well enough. I won’t lose control and drive off the road, but I won’t be able to stop at the intersection either. The light turns red._

Well, at least this nightmare I’m used to. I get up and go to the bathroom.

When I get back, Alex is awake and lying on his side. He smiles and lifts the covers.

I lie down beside him and wriggle around until my back is resting against chest. He wraps his arms around me and holds me close, his big hand easily cupping my breast.

I’m almost asleep when I feel the gentle shift from merely affectionate touching to affectionate and erotic touching. A question without words. In answer, I lean into Alex’s hand, letting him feel my hardening nipple against his palm. He shifts his hips a little, pressing his erection more firmly against the furrow of my ass.

Bit by bit we manage to get our clothes off and Alex slips into me, still spooning, still holding me.

I don’t know if it was his intent to chase away my demons, but it works.

 

The next day is Tuesday. If I’m going to attempt to send a message to the Thermians, I need to figure it out today.

I decide to go to the cyber café and go over whatever information I have again.

“Do you want a lift?” asks Alex.

I shake my head. “The walk will do me good,” I say, “but thanks.”

“Alright. I have some errands, then I’m going to the grocery store. We’re running low on everything but box wine.”

“Get some chard to go with the duck tonight.” I’ve already rubbed a couple of leg quarters with thyme and juniper and other good stuff this morning.

He bends down and I kiss him.

A couple minutes later, I’ve got my knapsack and my bucket hat and I’m locking the door. Frank gave Alex another spare key, so I don’t have to worry about him not being able to get back in.

I can’t say whether or not the walk actually does me any good, but I feel mildly less stressed out even if I’ve only given myself the illusion of forward momentum. At the café, I buy another vanilla Coke and a bagel with cream cheese. I take my usual seat and log in.

An hour and a half later, I’ve gone over Tommy Weber’s page and the main pages at Life Signs again. I have nothing to show for my time except dry eyeballs, but I decide to look at some of their bulletin board chatter anyway.

I can barely track half of it. My understanding of the space sciences doesn’t suck, but I’m not a… I check some of the user profiles… specialist in orbital dynamics or aerospace engineering either.

What I _can_ understand is that Larry and Matt work at UCLA and they want to know if Cindy and Charlie are coming down in September because they just found this great new place that has open mic karaoke on the weekends.

Your first two guesses don’t count.

Apparently, whenever a large enough contingent of Life Signs members are in L.A., they go out for Area 51 shots and bad renditions of “My Way.”

 _That_ _’s_ why the space theme and the karaoke — it’s a trap and the bait is my generation’s ironic love of kitsch. Gath’gor clearly knows about Tommy’s hobby, and I’m guessing that Gath’gor also knows that Tommy is often in attendance at these shindigs.

Maybe Fleegman’s employment there really is just a coincidence.

Whether it is or not, I’m now 99% certain that whatever’s going to go down next Wednesday, it’s going down at the Flying Saucer.

I look up the geographical coordinates of the bar, then I clear my history, log off, and settle my tab.

Alex hasn’t come back to the guest house by the time I get there.

I’m free to pace and talk to myself to my heart’s content, basically. And I make full use of that freedom too.

I need a message that the Thermians will understand, that will look like a mysterious riddle to the SETI enthusiasts watching Life Signs, and that will be opaque to any other aliens that might be picking up the transmission.

This is what I come up with —

“The Unkind must answer for his crimes.  
Korunda Lel III — 34.1314 N 118.1548 W  
00104.03.590  
Os marik na de’kou.”

The hard part is composing a sentence that only contains Makian words that were used in the show — “This battle no belonging to you.” — it’s not elegant, that’s for sure. I could do much better if I could use the entire language — I’m much more fluent in Makian than Mank’Narese — but I have no way of knowing if the Thermians have access to it. There are official dictionaries, but do the Thermians possess those particular “supplemental documents?”

Hell if I know.

I’m just hoping they receive and understand this message. I’m sure they have the intelligence and patience to figure it out, but I’m worried that they don’t have the imagination to fill in the gaps.

I hope they can send someone in time.

I hope they can send someone at all.

I hope Gath’gor isn’t monitoring KBHR.

I hope nothing goes wrong, but if I were the type of person to make football analogies, I’d say this definitely counts as a Hail Mary pass. I think you’re only supposed to use those when you’ve got nothing to lose.

I have plenty to lose.

But I call Elliot and let him know that I’m ready with the message anyway. He gets Tommy on another line and together we decide that the simplest way to work the message into the show is to record a “mysterious call” that the hosts of _The Life Signs Show_ , Jane and Lyle, will play during the call-in segment. We’ll meet at Tommy’s tomorrow morning at ten and call Jane then. She does the audio editing for the show.

Alex shows up just as I’m chopping veggies to braise with the duck.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. I get out the spare cutting board and the paring knife. “Sorry, there’s only one chef’s knife here,” (At the cabin we’d had a santoku as well.) “… but the celery doesn’t need to be chopped fine. It’s just to flavor the braising liquid.”

“That’s alright.” He smiles at me. “I’m going to put on some music first.”

“Sounds good.”

He threads up one of the reel-to-reel tapes and starts it.

It’s the Rachmaninoff.

It’s… kind of homey, really, working together in the kitchen and listening to this music.

I’m thinking back to the first evening that he was here.

I guess Alex is too.

“I was surprised to see the tape player and all those old reels still here,” he says as he scrapes the celery he’s chopped onto my cutting board with the onions and carrots. “I wonder that Frank didn’t get rid of them years ago along with the albums.”

“I’m glad he didn’t,” I say, washing my hands.

“Me as well. With so much else that’s changed, it’s rather nice to hear them again.”

He’s not wrong.

“I know one thing that’s the same.” I grab the towel and dry my hands.

“What’s that?” he asks, giving me his best “I’ll bite” smirk.

“You’re still too tall for me to reach.”

He puts his hands on my waist and pulls me closer, then he bends down and touches his forehead to mine.

“Better?”

“Much better,” I say before I put my arms around his neck and kiss him.

“Is there much left to do?” he asks.

“Just sautée this mirepoix, add some wine and the duck. Then it’s into the oven for three hours.” I kiss him again. “Why? Did you have plans?”

“I might be formulating a few.” He slides his hands down to my ass. “But first, I want a shower.”

“Okay,” I say, giving his ass a squeeze in return.

He gives me one more kiss and heads downstairs.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get the duck into the oven, so I’m surprised that the shower is still running when I get to the bedroom.

The door to the bathroom is open.

The exhaust fan in there isn’t very powerful, and the tiny room tends to get drippy walls if you close the door during a shower lasting longer than three minutes. It’s probably the only room in southern California with a mildew problem.

Some of the pillows have ended up on the old slipper chair. I toss them onto the floor and take a seat. Through a gap between the sheer curtain and the window frame, I can see down the hillside — already dry in an unusually warm February. It doesn’t help that all the rain for this winter decided to fall a month ago. I miss the greenness of Michigan, and I wonder if I’d like living here. After all, it’s not like I could afford a relative oasis like Frank’s compound.

The water cuts off, and I watch in the mirror as Alex steps out of the shower, grabs a towel, and rubs it over his face and chest.

Yeah, I could learn to deal with L.A.

Alex notices me watching him and smiles at my reflection. He finishes toweling off before walking, still naked, over to where I’m sitting in the chair with my legs folded under me. He reaches out and strokes his knuckles softly across my cheek.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks. “Or is it something you can’t say?”

I put my hands on either side of his waist and pull him a little closer. I kiss his hip bone.

“California,” I say.

“You were thinking about California?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I close my eyes and nuzzle against the crease where his thigh meets his body, breathing in the sexy, Alex-y, clean scent of him.

“And what were you thinking about it?”

“It’s not very green,” I say.

I keep my eyes closed and brush my lips over his hip again.

“I see,” he says, carding strong, blunt fingers through my hair. “Still, California does have its charms.”

“Yes, it does,” I answer.

I wrap my right hand around his cock, feel it pulse and thicken.

“It’s almost always sunny,” he says.

“I miss rain and snow, actually.” I gently turn his cock this way and that, admiring the dusky rose color of it. “And housing prices are ridiculous.”

“So what do you like?”

“You can get almost any kind of food.” I skim my lips and cheek over the soft skin.

“And?” He gasps.

“I like the people.” I take him in my mouth for the taste of him, for the pleasure of that rose-petal skin against my tongue, and to engulf him while I still can.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He braces one hand on the wall behind the chair and touches my face with the other, running his fingers over my jaw and lips.

I slide my hands from his hips to his ass and cup the curve of his bottom, stroke the backs of his thighs, feel the soft fuzz, softer now from being in a hot shower. My eyes are still closed and I can feel my mind starting to drift on all of the non-visual sensations — texture and shape, the taste and softness of cock skin, the pulse and swell of his erection, the smell of soap and balls, and — my favorite — that low rumble of needy approval that only Alex is capable of making.

He pulls out of my mouth and bends over to kiss me.

“Come here, you,” he murmurs just before his lips touch mine. I put my arms around his neck and let him pull me up until I’m standing. We stand there for awhile, kissing, soft and wet. Alex has his arms around my waist, circling, warm as sunshine. Finally he pulls back and looks at me.

“May I beg a favour?” he asks,

“Of course,” I say. I touch his hair, still wet — and curled because of it.

I’m in the mood to grant favors right now.

“I… umm… I’ve been thinking… about your story…”

Oh, this is going to be _good_.

“the ah… smutty one. Perhaps you would enjoy… something like that?”

Something like what? I mean, it pierces me — watching him expose himself to me like this. And I know it’s not easy to be vulnerable and ask for something you’ve been told is wrong, but holy fuck, sometimes it’s really hard to figure out what he’s after.

“Alex, do you want to fuck me in the ass?”

“No… I mean… If you wanted me to… but that’s not what I was driving at.”

I’m trying not to laugh, with only middling success. “I can take it or leave it, honestly, and silly me for assuming I should always be the passive partner.”

“You’re hardly what I would call, ‘passive,’” he says, with a little huff.

“But maybe you’d like to be?” I ask. “Maybe you’d like feel me slip a finger into your ass and touch you inside?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I think I would.”

I grin. “Right now?”

“Now would be… an opportune moment.”

“Okay,” I say, heading into the bathroom. He follows me.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching me dig through the second drawer from the top in the tiny sink cabinet.

I click my fingernails against the fake marble of the countertop. “You won’t like it much if I put these in you.” I locate the clippers. “One or two?” I ask, turning to look him in the eyes. “Or three?”

“Two, I think, will be sufficient.” He’s breathing just a little harder than standing around in a bathroom would normally warrant.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, leaning against the cabinet and watching me cut the nails on my left middle and ring fingers.

“Not for pleasure,” I say. I pick up a file and go to work smoothing the edges. I admit, I’m a little nervous and taking this one step at a time calms me.

“For what then?”

“I used to work as a home health aid, and trust me when I tell you that you’re about to steer this conversation in a decidedly unsexy direction.”

He laughs. “Heaven forbid.”

“So what brought this on?” I ask.

Alex shrugs. “I’ve always been curious, and your story made me think that you might be… up for it.”

“But you’ve never…?”

“Not with someone else.”

Oh?

“So just two virgins, rolling around on a bed?” I ask.

“Something like that,” he says.

My nails are perfectly smooth now, and I wash my hands to remove the dust.

“Do you have lube?” I ask.

“Bedside table.”

“Are you ready, then?”

He cups my cheek. “Yes.”

I let him lead us back to the bedroom — that way I can watch his ass as I’m following him. Alex crawls across the bed and lies back in the middle of it, hands behind his head, watching me. I set my glasses on the bedside table. I unbutton and remove my shirt, not exactly putting on a show, but not exactly in a hurry either. I unhook and discard my bra, then my skirt and underwear. I even take off all of my rings, which is something I rarely do. I drop them on the table, next to a small, wavy bottle of lube.

I climb up onto the bed and kneel next to Alex’s hip. I stroke him. I ruffle the hair on his legs the wrong way, then smooth it back down. I run my palms over his waist and ribs. I pet the line of hair that runs from his navel to the warm brown curls around his genitals.

I bend forward, cradle his big, shaggy head in my hands, and brush my lips over his mouth — softly, chastely — capturing small breaths from his parted lips.

I don’t close my eyes.

Neither does he.

Once again, I am very aware of the trust he’s placing in me.

I hope I don’t mess it up. I hope that I can give him the pleasure he’s hoping for.

Two virgins.

From the misty days of yore, I manage to dredge up the memories of my time as an actual virgin, laying my body beside another body for the first time, knowing that this time, penetration was on the menu.

We’d started with the familiar.

So I do that.

I stretch out next to Alex and deepen my kisses, running the tip of my tongue along the perfect bow of his lips, slipping inside his warm mouth to taste him. To be tasted.

I kiss along his jaw. I tickle his ear a little with the tip of my nose. I kiss his throat, feeling his pulse under my lips. I set my teeth there and suck — just a small mark that will fade in a day or two.

I wriggle lower, kiss his broad shoulders.

Lower still, I take his nipple into my mouth. I flick and roll it with my tongue. I press it against the edge of my teeth.

His voice rumbles in my ears, vibrates against my lips.

We’re lying facing each other, legs tangled together, hands on waists, hips, stomachs, shoulders, faces.

I think of the first time I ever hugged a boy. I mean, I hugged boys now and then when I was a child, but the first time I hugged a boy after puberty I was amazed by how wide his shoulders were, by his hard, flat chest, and the thick strength of his arms. I remember thinking that girls are softer and my arms rest perfectly in the curves of their waists. They felt like me, but not me. Boys, however, had become some other creatures entirely. Even the skinniest ones had so much muscle in their arms. I wondered what it was like to inhabit all that hard mass.

I wonder what it’s like to be tall?

And to have a cock?

I’m in awe of the way he’s constructed — the gentle curve of his pectoral muscle meeting the hard bone of his sternum, and the skin, fine-grained and smooth across his ribs.

And beneath the skin and muscle and protective bones — the rhythm of his heart and lungs.

“You’re unusually quiet,” says Alex.

“My mouth’s busy,” I say, nipping his chest just below his nipple in order to prove my point.

He makes a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a gasp.

I tip my head back and look at him. “And I’m listening.”

“Listening to what?”

I press an ear to his chest. “Your heart.”

“And what does it tell you?” he asks in that quiet voice that almost seems to come from nowhere and surround me.

Hello.

I missed you.

I’m happy you’re here.

Stay.

“Lub-dub,” I say.

“Nonsense.” He cradles my head to his chest. “Listen harder. It says, ‘Mary Sue,’ and it says, ‘I’m yours.’”

“Alex…”

“Mine to give. I don’t regret it for a moment.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. I don’t belong here in this time, even if I feel certain that I belong with Alex. I’ve already changed things too much, made too big of an impact. What if I get stuck here? Who will eliminate the next threat?

It’s hard enough to know he’s suffering. I can’t let him die too.

And on that cheerful note, I press my mouth to his nipple again and suck.

I feel Alex shift and kiss the top of my head. Then he puts one of those big, encompassing hands on my breast.

“Yes?” he asks, teasing.

“Mmf,” I moan against his chest.

He chuckles. “You don’t need to say anything, sweetheart. I already know.”

He captures my hardening nipple between his fingers and rolls it gently — just enough to make me whine. Almost enough to distract me from what he’s really saying.

And he knows that too.

And honestly, I’m beginning to think he knows just a little too much, you know? Maybe he’s getting just a little too confident?

I put the tips of my two filed fingers in my mouth and get them wet, then I slip them between the halves of his incredibly sweet ass and press them gently against his opening.

He gasps.

I look up at him.

“How do you want to do this, Alex?” Softly, I rub little circles against the tight knot. “Do you want to be on your hands and knees? Face in the pillow, ass in the air? I can tell you it’s an interesting sensation, being on display like that, not being able to see clearly what your lover is doing, just waiting for that touch — wanting and vulnerable.”

His breath hitches and his eyes darken like I’ve suddenly turned off the lights.

“Maybe on your side, my body curved around yours, holding you, kissing the back of your neck?”

He arches his back slightly, pressing against my fingers.

“Personally,” I say, “I’d rather have you on your back, legs spread wide. I’d like to see your face while I’m inside you.”

“That,” he says. “Please.”

I nod and sit up, reaching across the bed to the lube. I pop open the cap and squeeze two long lines of liquid, one on each finger. I smear the lube around a bit with my thumb and set the closed bottle on the bed in case I want it again later. I turn to face Alex. He’s stacked up about three of the thickest pillows and he’s reclining against them.

He hesitates slightly before drawing his knees up and letting them fall – splayed – one nearly to the surface of the bed and the other against my thigh.

It’s a gesture I barely think about any more, but I remember how graceless and undignified and… debauched it had seemed at first.

As I lie back down beside him, I place the palm of my hand against his cock and slide it down over his balls until my slicked fingers reach the cleft of his ass. I prop my other elbow against the stack of pillows in order to lift myself up enough to watch him, but I’m too short to get a good angle with my hand and have my head on level with his.

I slip my middle finger into that warm furrow and start making those little circles again, soft and frictionless.

Alex gasps and holds his breath.

I may have never done this to someone for fun, but I’ve done it to myself, and I’ve read about it — a lot about it actually. In the interest of research, you understand.

I just keep circling, gentle and patient against the tight muscle.

“Fuck,” says Alex, the expletive breathed out with the air in his lungs. “That is… really damned pleasant, actually.” He smiles at me.

“That’s my goal,” I say. “I want you to enjoy this.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“Alex…” I shake my head a little. “I’m holding you in the palm of my hand.” I press said palm to the flesh of his perineum to illustrate.

“Is that all?” he asks. “I cede control to you all the time.”

“You do, and I love it. You trusting me with your body, your pleasure, is intensely erotic. And the fact that no one’s ever touched you like this before… it’s weird because I don’t really set much stock in innocence, but I can’t deny that it feels even more intimate.”

“I may not have engaged in this particular act before, but I’m hardly an innocent.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I say. “You aren’t innocent, but you’re doing this with me here and now despite having had plenty of opportunities in the past.”

“I can’t imagine asking any of them to do this,” he says.

“Exactly.”

Bit by bit, he’s relaxing, softening, opening under my stroking fingers. I add just the slightest extra pressure, and my finger slips in almost to the first knuckle.

“Oh!” says Alex.

“Okay?” I ask.

“Yes?”

“Breathe.”

He takes a couple of shallow breaths.

“Like an actor, Alex.”

His breathing deepens. And, just like that, I’m pulled into the warm, smooth passage.

“God yes,” I whisper. “Alex. This is… this is… Can I move?”

“In a second.” He looks at me and huffs a little laugh. “Don’t look so worried. It’s strange is all.”

So I wait for him to adjust to the sensation.

But I want to move.

I’m caught off-guard by how much I want to move. I mean, I could understand it if I had a cock and I had that cock where my middle finger is now. If I had a cock, I’m not sure how I’d get through the day without being balls deep in Alexander Dane every waking second of it.

This. Line of thought. Is not helping.

The other things that’re not helping are the little flexes and flutterings of Alex’s internal muscles. They keep drawing me deeper into his body. And, honestly, I’m almost in tears at how much I want to stroke him.

“Now, Mary Sue.”

Oh, thank fuck.

I draw slowly back to my first knuckle, then push, slip, glide slowly back in until I can’t go further.

“Sweet Jesus,” he says “How does it feel?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my question?” Out. In.

“I asked first.”

“Mature,” I say, sliding outward again. “You’re warm — obviously. Soft… Uhm… yielding, enveloping.” I press in. “Tight, but only at first, like your body is trying to hold me here.”

I curve my finger and pull out to the rim again.

“Buggering fuck,” says Alex.

I giggle. It’s appropriate anyway.

I glide back in, finger still curved to press on the smooth, round gland as I slip across it.

“Jesus, Mary Sue. Just… keep doing… _that_.”

Well, since he asked…

“Just like this?” I ask. Out. In.

“Yes,” he says.

“This is how you like to be fucked? Slow and easy? Waves lapping at the shore?”

“This is… this is good.”

“If you change your mind,” I say, “let me know.”

I settle against him. He has one arm under me, his hand spread out against my lower back — like when we’re dancing. With his other hand, he strokes my arm, cups my face, touches my hair.

And I fuck him — slipping and gliding out and in.

And I watch him.

I watch his face. His brows are drawn together, deepening the already deep crease between them. His eyes glitter from under half-open lids until he closes them entirely.

I hear his voice. Even when he’s abandoned to pleasure, it’s a beautiful instrument — as low and powerful as the lingering vibrations of a bass drum. His moans are punctuated by a litany of “yes” and “fuck” and “please,” and it rolls over my skin like velvet and electricity.

I watch his body move — his hips. It’s an abbreviated, staccato movement, as if he’s trying to suppress it, but failing.

And, oh, I know that feeling — that desire to chase pleasure at war with the desire to savor it.

He opens his eyes and looks at me, and I’m aware that I’ve gone quiet again, enthralled by him.

I think of all the people in history, before history, all over the world, in palaces and huts and hotels and boats, on beds and couches and hammocks and floors, who took another person in their arms and gave them pleasure and took some for themselves.

I crane my neck to kiss him, and he meets me halfway.

“Do you want more?” I ask. “Should I put the other finger in too?”

“Yes.”

I pull out, nearly to the tip of my middle finger, and add the ring finger. I press slowly back in.

When I’m about halfway, Alex grabs my wrist and pushes my fingers in as far as they’ll go.

“Greedy,” I say.

“Look who’s talking,” he replies.

He lets go of my wrist, and I begin moving again.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “I like it. I like how loose and open you are for me. I like being in you, touching your body here.” I press a little harder against his prostate as I slide my fingers over it.

His sharp intake of breath is released on a dawn-out groan.

I love the sounds he makes. I love hearing him make them for me.

“And I especially like how much you want this.”

“Faster,” he says, and I pick up the tempo.

I press my mound against his hip — a little extra pressure against my swollen and neglected clit.

I risk a glance down at my fingers disappearing into his ass, and my heart stutters at the sight of that pink circle clutching at my hand.

My clit throbs as my heart decides that it’s going to beat after all.

“Alex… Baby… You are so fucking sweet.”

“Sweet?” He’s breathing so hard, my own lungs ache in sympathy.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” I tell him. “Sweet and hot and… and… _yielding_. God, you take me so well.”

Alex shoves his hand into my hair and pulls just enough to get me to tip my head back. The look he gives me is desperate, pleading. And then he kisses me, sucking my tongue into his mouth, and it’s just as hot and sweet as his hole. I’m going to lose all sense of rhythm, I just know it. I put the arm I’ve been leaning on under his head and hold tight.

He rolls toward me, throwing his leg over my hip, so that I can continue to have access to him, so that I can continue to fuck him.

His cock now lies, hard and warm, between our bellies, and he presses it against my soft stomach, dragging it through the warm slick of liquid leaking from the tip.

He’s going to come. I can feel it in the way the tension is coiling in his muscles, and the way he clasps my fingers.

He breaks our kiss and pulls in a gasping breath.

“Mary Sue,” he says, low and ragged. Then he buries his face against my neck.

And I feel a thick warm splash against my belly.

Then another.

And another.

… And another.

His cock twitches twice more as I pull out of him. I rest my forearm on his hip and he takes his leg off mine.

Other than that, we don’t move for quite a while.

In fact, I’m beginning to think that it was all a bit much for Alex and that he’s fallen asleep, when he takes hold of my chin and kisses me.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It was my pleasure,” I tell him.

“Really?” He skims a hand down my body until he reaches my pubic hair. He strokes it with the back of his finger and says, “Open, please.”

I guess it’s my turn to place my thigh on his hip.

He holds my quim in his hand.

“Christ,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt you so swollen without being touched.”

He insinuates two fingers into my vagina and paints the slippery liquid he finds there up to my clit.

“It really turned you on, didn’t it?” he asks.

“Mmm.” I’m already rocking into his light touch.

“Say it,” he says. “Tell me it turned you on to fuck my arse.”

“It did turn me on.” I kiss him. “It made me feel powerful and sexy and generous and…” …special, truthfully, but I can’t say it. I kiss him again. “I loved fucking your ass, Alex Dane.”

He smiles at me and presses his forehead to mine and his fingers to the flesh around my button and…

… I was so close already…

… I shatter.

I fall apart into a million crystal shards.

I snap back together to find Alex still holding me, one hand still on the small of my back, and the other cupping my quim. He’s kissing my forehead. He’s calling me a beautiful sticky woman.

And I laugh.

Because he’s absurd.

And because I’m happy.

I mean, he’s not wrong — I am sticky — but also happy.

 

“Did you ever live with someone?” Elliot asks as we’re coming back from Tommy’s apartment in the San Fernando valley. Obviously, I haven’t gone and sparkled off to the future yet.

I assume this line of inquiry was prompted by the fact that Tommy lives with his girlfriend, Lisa.

“I’ve had roommates,” I say as I work the waistband of my pantyhose out from under my butt while keeping Elliot’s huge grey cardigan modestly covering anything that needs modestly covering. “… but if you’re asking whether I’ve ever lived in sin,” I finally remove the offending garment and unroll the waist of my skirt so that it goes back to ankle- rather than knee-length. “… I haven’t. Well, except for Alex.”

I didn’t think I could get away with the green pants twice in a row, hence the knee-length skirt and nylons. The cardigan covered the roll at my waist. And, you know, made me look frumpier.

Everything went off without a hitch, by the way. Jane was very patient and professional, and she seemed pretty tickled to be part of mysterious goings-on. Tommy read the message, and then Jane distorted it — making it sound like a classic anonymous informant voice.

But now, there’s nothing to do but wait, ergo the completely unrelated conversational gambit, I assume.

“How was it?”

“Living with Alex?” I think about it. “It was really nice, actually. There were snags, but we seemed to settle into something workable fairly quickly, which is surprising, considering that the cabin was so small. Of course, I’m never quite sure if we’re still on our best behavior or not.”

“Meaning you’re not sure if Alex is still on his best behavior,” says Elliot.

“Right,” I say. “So how about you? Ever shack up?”

“No. I’d like to though.”

Ah, here we go.

“Casey?” I ask. “Or have you met someone new?”

“No, it’s Casey,” says Elliot, sighing.

“You guys have been together for quite a while.” I start pulling the hairpins out of my bun.

“Fourteen years.”

“So, what’s the hold-up, Mr. James?” I’m supposed to pry, right?

“Casey doesn’t want to come out.”

“Ah,” I say.

“It’s his family,” says Elliot. “His parents, actually. His sister knows.”

“And he can’t just tell his parents that you’re his roommate or something?” I unwind my hair and finger-comb it a bit.

“Forty-eight-year-old successful CPA’s don’t suddenly need roommates.”

“Right,” I say. Practical advice not needed.

“He’s out to our friends, of course, and even to his boss, but he can’t tell his parents because they’re assholes. I can’t even figure out why he still cares. Except for getting married, he’s done everything they’ve ever asked of him and it’s still not good enough.”

“Takers,” I say.

“Yeah.” Elliot scowls at the road. “He says I wouldn’t understand because my mom was okay with it.”

“It’s a rough thing, disappointing your mom,” I say, thinking back to the time I explained polyamory and why I wasn’t ever going to “settle down” to my mom.

“I wish it was as hard to disappoint me,” says Elliot.

“He trusts you not to reject him.”

Elliot actually takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me a dirty look.

Right. Not what he wanted to hear. I’m supposed to be commiserating here.

“But I get it,” I say. “You want someone to help you unload the groceries and to wash half the laundry even though he folds the towels wrong and to inevitably forget to clean out the sink after he trims his sideburns and to obsessively straighten the shoes on the mat by the door and to bring you toast and tea when you’re sick and to smoosh his erection against your butt in the middle of the night…”

Elliot snorts. “Mary Sue.”

“Well?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

“Does it have to be Casey?”

That was stupid, but Elliot just appears to be considering the question.

“I’m too old to start over,” he says. “And I don’t know who I’d start with, anyway.”

I don’t have anything to say to that, and we drive on in silence for awhile.

Finally, Elliot says, “It doesn’t _have_ to be him. I want it to be him.”

“I’m sorry, El.”

And that’s when our exit comes up.

Elliot has an appointment today, and he won’t have time to drive me all the way back to Hollywood, so he’s dropping me at the North Campus of the L.A. Dramatic Actors’ Academy where Alex is currently teaching.

As I’m getting out of the car, Elliot thanks me.

“For what?” I ask.

“Letting me vent,” he says.

“Anytime,” I say, handing him his sweater.

Alex isn’t hard to find. The building is on the small side and the room where he’s teaching is down a short hall on the left just as you walk in. The double door is open, and I can see him standing in the center of a half-circle of about a dozen students who are seated on the large mats covering the floor. Everyone is wearing t-shirts and sweatpants. The room has been painted dark blue and it either doubles as, or once was, a dance studio. The back wall is covered in mirrors and has a barre attached to it.

There are chairs in the hallway, all lined up along the wall facing the doors to the studio. I sit in one that gives me a good view of the room. I can see pretty much everything in the big mirrors.

Alex gestures toward a tall young woman with a blond ponytail. She comes and stands in front of him, listens to him a moment, then nods. He takes a step toward her and she puts out her hand as if to stop him, then she slaps him. It’s loud and Alex’s head snaps an inch or so in the direction of the blow. A couple of the students gasp.

There’s a smattering of relieved giggles and applause as Alex smiles at the young woman and says something to her. They turn so that their audience can see them from the side and repeat the slap. Now, without her body blocking the view, it’s obvious that she’s not even touching his face and that the sound comes from her hitting her own hand, which is still thrust towards Alex. The rest is just, well, _acting_.

A male student in blue sweats asks a question, and from the look Alex is giving him, I’d guess that he asked why you wouldn’t just really slap someone. (Because some guy always asks that.) I’m sure he’s getting a lecture about perforated eardrums.

The students pair off to work on the technique.

Alex wanders from couple to couple, correcting form and issuing instructions.

And I watch.

And I think about the conversation I just had with Elliot.

It’s not that I’ve never thought about living with someone in a romantic way. It’s just that my ideal relationship would be a triad, preferably with two men, and I haven’t ever found myself in that situation. When dating more than one person, it’s just simpler to live alone. Add to that the fact that my apartment is very small and not suitable for tall people, and the fact that I like my solitude and my stuff… I’ve just never seriously contemplated living with any particular person.

But I can’t deny that living with Alex is… good. It feels comfortable and safe, but not in a confining way — in a way that lets me stretch, lets me push myself.

It’s like when Fred holds my hand and I can go closer to the edge of the roof. It’s that kind of comfort and safety.

And I feel needed. I feel like he’s genuinely happier when I’m around.

He takes care of me.

He lets me take care of him.

Not like Kevin did. I poke cautiously at those memories. I never know which ones will bring up some pain from the week when all of that was real. But, no, it’s not like Kevin, who demanded that I meet his whims.

Alex asks or lets me offer. He places himself in my hands.

I like how competent that makes me feel.

I like how we fit together.

When this is over, when Fred and Laliari finally sparkle off to… tomorrow — not today’s tomorrow but the day after Quest Con 18 — will I want to live with Alex for real? Will he want to live with me? How would that even work?

And just like every other time I contemplate a future with Alex, my brain runs down eighty different what-abouts. What about the distance? What about moving? What about the expense? What about Sean? Gunner? Trent? What about any people I haven’t met yet? What about my job? What about his job? What about the fact that I shouldn’t ever have met him? Does any of this really count? Will time fix itself by cutting us out of each others’ lives?

I’m practically chewing a hole through my lip by the time the students sit back down.

Alex and Ponytail square off for a bit of hand-to-hand combat. This is obviously a rehearsed routine that they’ve done before. They circle each other, staring so intently that it’s difficult to tell if they’re sizing each other up or just really turned on. Quick as lightning, Alex makes the first move, spinning Ponytail around and getting her arm twisted up behind her. She grimaces with pain and Alex looks at her menacingly for a moment before she breaks his hold and takes a swing at him. He ducks. They circle some more, smiling this time in a way that would get a couple hundred fics written about them if they were in a movie. Alex lashes out again, but Ponytail is too quick this time. She is suddenly not where his fist should land. She’s grabbed his arm, using his momentum to flip him to the floor where she stands over him, ready to deliver the final blow.

Then they grin at each other, and she’s holding out her hand to “help” him up. They take a little bow for the applauding students.

This is apparently the signal for the class to end. The students come wandering out, carrying gym bags and water bottles, and chattering about the class.

“If Dane looked at me like that, I’d be more inclined to jump his bones than break them,” says one of the men as he passes where I’m sitting.

“Lucky for the rest of us he doesn’t,” says the woman walking next to him.

I resist the urge to laugh, but I’m snorting a little when Alex and Ponytail come out of the room with another student -- the one in the blue sweats who thinks he can take a little slap for goodness sakes. The guy asks Alex if real combat skills are useful in stage combat.

“Experience is always useful in the craft,” says Alex. “Knowing the emotional and physical sensations of a real fight can inform one’s performance. What is more useful, I think, is having some training in fencing, say, or boxing. But again, it’s about understanding the story you’re telling more than knowing anything about actual fighting.”

“Voice of experience?” asks Blue Sweats.

Alex doesn’t bite though. “I practiced Tai Chi for many years. I found the discipline very useful, on and off the stage.”

“But have you ever done any real fighting?”

“Jesus, Reg,” says Ponytail. “Chill the hell out. If you’re so eager for honest-to-god blood sports, there’s a fight gym just up the street. Here, we teach acting.”

“It was just a question,” says Reg.

“The answer to which has no bearing on this class,” says Alex, putting not quite the full disapproval of the entire British Empire into his voice.

“Fine.” Reg rolls his eyes. “Forget I asked.”

Reg heads on out the door just as Alex and the young woman reach me where I’m standing in front of the chairs.

“There you are,” says Alex quietly, smiling like you do when you put your hand in the pocket of the coat you don’t wear very often and find your favorite gloves that you’ve been hunting all over for.

His companion is wide-eyed for about half a second before she manages to rearrange her face into mild pleasant interest. Alex notices me looking at her.

“This is Karen,” he says, “my lovely assistant. I find it cuts down on injuries to yours truly if I have someone who knows what she’s about to help me with demonstrations. Karen, this is Mary Sue, my…” He pauses. “She’s an old friend of mine.”

Yeah, I’m a little hard to explain. It was so much simpler when we were fake married.

I shake Karen’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “You were great in there.”

“Nice to meet you too. Thanks.” She looks at Alex. “Um, anyway — I’d better scoot. See you on Friday.”

“Yes,” says Alex. “Drive carefully.”

“Yeah, you too,” she says before also heading out the door.

“So,” says Alex. He kisses me.

“So…” I answer.

“Got any plans this afternoon?”

“Just washing this stuff off my face.”

“Mmm, I need a shower too,” says Alex. “After that, though, _Romeo + Juliet_ is playing at the cheap cinema. Want to go see it?”

“I never say no to Baz Luhrmann or Good-n-Plenties.”

“It’s a date then.” He takes my hand and kisses me again.

“Come on,” I say. “We can make out during the movie.”

As we’re driving back to the guest house I ask him, “What was with that guy? Reg?”

Alex glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I assume you’re referring to his curiosity concerning my level of experience with combat of the unstaged variety.”

I get verbose when I’m angry. Alex gets verbose when he’s annoyed.

“I prefer to be… circumspect about my private life, as you know,” he says, “And this has given rise to a certain amount of speculation as to the reasons for my reticence. The current rumour is that I am a retired secret agent.”

“A what now?!”

“Apparently, I used to work for MI6, and, for whatever reason, I chose to retire and teach stage combat in L.A. The favourite theory is that I am psychologically scarred from all of the assassinations I’ve carried out.”

“How…?” I’m laughing so hard I can’t do complete sentences.

“The school’s receptionist has a vivid imagination,” he says. “After running out of movie stars for whom I was suffering unrequited love, he moved on to me being James Bond.”

“Okaaaay.”

“I made the mistake of detailing how novices are unprepared for what a painful experience it is to throw a punch, and now Reg is constantly trying to get me to admit that my hands are registered lethal weapons.”

“Oh god.”

Alex glances at me again, but he’s smiling a little this time. “The truth, of course, is much less glamorous. I used to get into scuffles when I was younger. I earned a stern talking-to from the headmaster at my school, who reminded me that I was a scholarship student and that he’d personally sign my expulsion if he so much as heard that I was in the general vicinity of a loud argument again.”

I put on a scowly face. “Straighten up and fly right,” I say.

I can see his eyes crinkle. “Indeed.”

“Did you really study Tai Chi?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm. The Dance of Grabthar is about half Tai Chi and half ballet. Fred helped me choreograph it. He took dance when he was a child.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. “He never mentioned dance lessons…” Oh fuck. “… in any of his interviews… that I saw, anyway.” I reach for the first thing I can think of to change the subject. “Karen’s quite good.”

“Yes, she is.”

Well, that’s um… Come on, brain, throw me a bone here.

“Have you been working together long?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “About four months now, I believe. Why do you ask?”

Because I’m scrambling to find something to talk about other than Fred Kwan.

“No reason,” I say. “I’m just curious about your life, I guess.”

“Ah. For a second there, I thought perhaps you might be jealous.”

“Did you want me to be?”

“Maybe,” he says. “A little.”

I’ve never understood that. Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than dealing with a partner’s jealousy.

“I suppose you don’t get jealous,” he says.

“I do,” I say. “It’s just… You know how I said my emotions are sometimes not… normal?”

“I remember you saying that they’re often stronger or weaker than most people consider normal.”

“Very politic. I don’t feel jealousy over my… lovers having other lovers. I may feel insecure if I think that it will affect my relationship with that person in a negative way, but I don’t automatically assume that it will, and it’s not the overwhelming emotion that other people describe. But I do get jealous.”

Alex is quiet, just watching the road.

“I’ve been jealous of Amber,” I say.

“Really?” he asks. “You didn’t seem it. You weren’t even interested in whether or not I’d been sleeping with her when it came up in Tahoe.”

“I wasn’t interested. You’re both adults. You care about each other. I assume you have enough experience with each other that you can be reasonably sure of having a pleasurable time together. Add to that the fact that neither of you have any sort of permanent romantic partner… It’s natural that you two would want to have sex sometimes.

“What makes me jealous is the opportunities she’s had with you — opportunities I’d give my left tit for, honestly. Believe me, I felt jealous when you said that you and she had ‘flirted with’ getting back together.

“I hate that I can never discuss the future with you. But she can. And she’s had the luxury of taking that for granted.”

Alex takes my hand and squeezes it.

“So how did your day go?” he asks.

“I did what I set out to do. There’s nothing left for the next few days but to wait.”

“Well then, I’ll do my best to keep you entertained.”

 

Alex sticks to his promise of keeping me entertained, or I should say, distracted from constantly second-guessing myself.

On Thursday we stay in bed and have lazy sex until hunger drives us upstairs. Elliot calls around lunch time to let me know that the show’s been taped and the secret message added to the phone-in segment. Tommy doesn’t have my number here, just in case he recognizes it. Or, you know, is computer-savvy enough to do a reverse phone number search. In the afternoon, Alex reads to me from _Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil_.

On Friday, Alex is at the academy for most of the day, but Frank takes it upon himself to valiantly take up the slack. We watch Cary Grant comedies all day.

We’re watching _My Favorite Wife_ when Frank says, “They lived together for years, you know.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Cary Grant and Randolph Scott. They had a place in Santa Monica and another in Los Feliz. The studio used to plant stories about how they had to have a revolving door installed for all the beautiful young ladies — wouldn’t let them make pictures together though.”

Watching the way Cary Grant keeps ogling Scott, I can see why.

“Stupid, really,” says Frank, “but Americans have always had a stick up their collective ass when it comes to sex.”

Well, he’s not wrong.

“You know,” he goes on, “I wanted to make Chen gay, but I couldn’t get it past the suits.”

“Gay, huh?”

“What?” asks Frank. “Can’t see it?”

“I just… I always wrote him bi,” I say, trying not to giggle.

He grins at me. “Oh… you’re one of _those_ , are you?”

“You’re not offended, I hope.”

“Nah,” he says, waving his hand. “You gals kept the fans coming back. I owe one of the few paychecks I get to you. And some of the stuff was pretty good.”

When Alex gets home, he’s sore from demonstrating throws all afternoon.

“Is it always this bad?” I ask as I’m straddling his hips and kneading the muscles in his back. “Karen doesn’t look that big.”

“I don’t throw her much. Mostly she throws me,” says Alex. “Audiences prefer to see the underdog win.”

“Do you need to work on your falls?”

“I should probably pick up strength training again.”

“Why’d you quit?” I ask.

“It’s difficult to find the time,” he says.

The time or the energy, I wonder.

“You should take better care of yourself,” I say.

Stupid. It’s exactly the sort of thing I didn’t want to hear when my own life was going to hell.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not my place—”

“It’s exactly your place.” Alex rolls over, reaches up, and cups my cheek. “You’re my friend.” He smiles. “And I know what you mean.” He pulls me down and kisses me. “I worry about you too.”

Over the weekend, Alex and I fall into a similar routine to the one we had in Lake Tahoe — reading, cooking, dance lessons, sex, and just endless conversations about anything and everything.

 _The English Patient_ — “I think I liked the secondary storyline better,” I say.

“Mm, I thought Juliette Binoche’s performance was very good,” says Alex. “And the young man who played Kip as well.”

“Naveen Andrews is good in everything,” I say.

“I’ve never seen him in anything else.”

“I first saw him in _The_ _Peacock Spring_. It was on _Masterpiece Theater._ ”

“I think I’ve read the book… Rumer Godden, right?”

“That’s the one,” I say.

“I’ll have to watch for it.”

 _Love! Valour! Compassion!_ — “You’ve never seen it?” asks Alex.

“The city where I live has a fairly lively theater scene, but that one may be a little too lively,” I say. “The fact that there was dick in _Bent_ made the front page of the Arts section.”

“I saw it with Amber last year. You would have loved it.”

“Maybe someday we… I’ll get to see it.”

French Fries — “Ketchup or mayonnaise?” asks Alex.

“Just salt,” I say. “And vinegar, if it’s malt vinegar and the fries are thick and fresh from the fryer.”

“That’s chips. You’ve just described chips.”

“The Road Less Taken” — “It’s a good poem,” I say. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I’ve never met anybody who really loves it that isn’t motoring down the four-lane highway of life, you know?”

 _Cyrano de Bergerac_ — “I mean, what’s tragic about it is that she would have loved him,” I say. “She would have been supremely pissed, but Roxanne would have loved Cyrano if she’d known.”

“What’s tragic is that he only realises that as he’s dying,” says Alex. “It’s only then that he understands that what he thought was a fatal flaw was really very minor in her eyes, and that she’d have forgiven him the deception.”

“I think the deception wouldn’t have bothered her nearly as much as the assumption that she wouldn’t have been able to weigh his virtues against something as superficial as being sort of funny-looking.”

“It wasn’t Roxanne that he lacked faith in,” he says. “It was himself. His mind, his physical prowess — they did nothing to protect him from ridicule, though he employed them to avenge himself against those who dared use him for their entertainment.”

“But she didn’t ridicule him,” I say.

“But in his mind he could hear her thinking that it was ridiculous that someone like him could have any hope of winning someone as beautiful and sensitive as she. And what could he have done against her, to reclaim his dignity? Ridicule her? Challenge her to a duel? He couldn’t raise a weapon against the hurt she might do him.”

“Then why tell her at the end?” I ask. “Why let her know that she’s lived years in a cloister in remembrance of someone who’s only now dying at her feet?”

“To set her free.”

 

_Lola_ _’s not in the apartment. I look all over. I rattle the cat food tin. Nothing._

_I head downstairs to look for him. I hate going down there, but Kevin will be angry if Lola_ _’s in the lower part of the house._

 _Lola_ ' _s safe in the attic. Kevin can’t come up there. I’m safe in the attic._

 _But Lola_ 's _not downstairs and neither is Kevin. Nothing is downstairs, just a long drop down down down to smoldering earth. I try to stop, but my brain doesn’t react fast enough and I am hurtling past the last stair_

_Pitching forward_

_And_

_Falling_

_I scream but there_ _’s no sound._

_I scream and sit up, gasping for air._

_It_ _’s night and I’m in the bedroom of the guest house. It’s soft in here, with the bright California sun on the other side of the world. With all of these pillows. With Alex stirring next to me._

_He reaches out from the shadows and takes my hand. He tugs me closer. I lie down and press my face against his chest. He rolls me under his body and lifts his head to look at me._

_Not Alex._

_Kevin._

“ _Stupid fucking slag. Thought you could just run away with that fucking dyke? Just leave me and spread your legs for any asshole with a fancy accent? Huh? You been getting your holes filled? How about I fill a few?”_

 _He pushes his face against mine, his wet, filthy mouth on mine. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth, and it_ _’s cold and foul like old raw meat._

 _I shove at him as hard as I can. I push with my arms and legs but I can_ _’t budge him._

 _No! But there_ _’s no sound._

_Kevin rolls off me, sits up and grabs my hair. He yanks me to sitting as well._

“ _Look!” he says. “Look, you stupid fucking whore!”_

 _He_ _’s so big and his voice is like the roar of some animal and the fingers in my hair end in sharp claws. He won’t let me turn and get a good look at him, but it’s Gath’gor, I know._

“ _Look!”_

_The curtains are open._

_Through the window I see a pink and orange glow where L.A. should be._

_He puts his mouth next to my ear, and his breath smells like something sweet, rotting._

_I gag._

“ _You failed,” he whispers. “They’re dead. Millions of people. And it’s all your fault. If you’d never interfered, they’d all be alive.”_

 _No. But I still can_ _’t make a sound. No. I push harder. No. I try to scream…_

“No!”

I’m sitting up. Arms reach around me, but I push and scrabble away.

“No!”

I rush to the window and snatch back the curtain.

And out there, beyond the plantings that try to make it seem like you’re not in L.A., is L.A.

And, I’m standing there, in my t-shirt and underwear, trembling, when Alex’s voice, low and rough and warm washes over me.

“Mary Sue?”

He approaches me slowly, but the caution isn’t for himself, I realize. It’s for me.

“Sweetheart?”

I open my mouth, expecting nothing to come out, but it slips out so easily — “Alex?”

“Are you alright?” he asks, and I almost laugh, just a little hysterical.

But I know what he means.

I reach up and put my arms around his neck. He bends and pulls me close, enfolding me.

I breathe him in. And it’s so good. He smells so… good.

Like Alex.

So, of course, I start crying.

He takes a couple steps back, never letting me go, just taking me with him. He sits in the slipper chair and pulls me into his lap.

He makes little sounds — shushes and words of assurance, like “it’s alright.”

I mean, it’s not, but it feels good anyway.

And he holds me until I’m cried out.

“Are you ready to go back to bed?” he asks when I’m finally still.

I shake my head. “I need to pee.”

“Of course,” he says, and I can feel the low vibration of quiet laughter.

I stand up. It’s only a few steps to the lamp on Alex’s side of the bed. I go and turn it on. I look at him, still seated in the chair, just to reassure myself that he’s still him and I haven’t fallen into another nightmare before heading into the bathroom.

I pee quickly and wash my hands. I rinse my mouth out.

When I get back, Alex has straightened the pillows and blankets. We climb back into bed, and Alex reaches for the lamp.

“No,” I say. “Please leave it on.”

“Alright,” he says, and he puts his arms around me.

I fall back asleep with my head on his chest.

 

That was the worst of the nightmares. I have others — one where I’m at con and trying to find Cece and Shondra. I catch up to them on the roof with Fred. He looks at me and says, “Too late, Mary Sue,” and the building crumbles under us. One where I’m back at the cabin and I come downstairs looking for Alex. He’s there, standing on the back deck, talking and laughing with Mi-Na. The porch slides off the cabin and down the hillside.

But none of those cause me to wake up screaming and fighting.

However, that doesn’t mean that I’m sleeping either. I’m now so afraid of the nightmares that I have a terrible time getting to sleep, and when I do have them they keep me awake, of course.

I swear I get most of my sleep from catnaps in one of the wing chairs. I’ll say this for wing chairs — you don’t wake up with nearly the crick in your neck that you get from falling asleep in say, a club chair.

I blame the lack of sleep for the argument.

Well, no. I blame myself for the argument.

But the lack of sleep didn’t help.

It’s late Wednesday morning. Elliot will be here soon. Our plan is to, you know, find Gath’gor and stop him — hopefully for good this time.

Alex will be leaving shortly after I do. He has an afternoon class.

We both know that if I get what I want today, I won’t be coming back. I won’t see Alex until this is all over, and I know that’s two years from now, but he doesn’t.

And I can’t tell him either.

I’ve heard the question that’s been hanging around all of our free-ranging discussions of the last few days (and longer, if I’m honest about it) — do we have a chance to be together once I’m back in my own time?

So it’s a tough morning. We know it’s good-bye once more. We don’t know what will happen when we see each other again. And we can’t really talk about it.

We’re doing the breakfast dishes by hand — Alex is washing and I’m drying and putting them away — because the dishwasher won’t have time to run before we’re gone, and I want to leave the place pretty much the way I found it even though I know Frank will have the service go over it the next time they come, but I don’t want to make extra work for them because that’s Just Not the Way I Was Raised.

“I’ve been thinking…” says Alex.

Immediately, alarm bells go off in my head. Once in a great while “I’ve been thinking” ends with something like, “we should fly to Bali and make love in one of those resorts where the rooms are made of 90% tropical breezes and gauzy curtains.” Usually though, it ends with something like, “this is probably an incredibly bad idea that I should not bring up now or in this manner, but I need to see the look of horror on your face to confirm that.”

“Yeah?” I say. “About?”

“About us,” he says. Those alarm bells are becoming klaxons. He hands me the last couple of spoons and I concentrate way too hard on drying them. He puts his hand on my shoulder, exerting just enough pressure to let me know he wants me to look at him.

“Mary Sue, I want to be with you when we’re both finally where we belong in time, and I think you feel the same.”

“I…” really can’t do this now. “It doesn’t matter what I feel,” I say. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t belong here, Alex. I’m not supposed to make changes that don’t fix the timeline. We’ve never even met in my time. I don’t know how that’s going to affect us. And even without that, there are so many obstacles.”

“Like your other… relationships,” he says.

What’s on my mind is this idea that because our whole affair has been sort of stolen out of time, that we won’t be able to go on. That we’re not real somehow — a break in the way time is supposed to go, and that time will try to correct that once we’re both back in the flow of it.

What’s on Alex’s mind, apparently, is that I fuck other people.

“I know that you’re polyamorous,” he says, “and that I have… difficulty with that.”

Truthfully, compared to pretty much every other monogamous guy I’ve ever dated, he has remarkably little “difficulty” with it.

But maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe this is the reset mechanism. He’ll spend the next two years deciding that he could never be happy with a slut like me and I’ll come back to find him cold and indifferent.

And he’ll go about his life as if we’d never met.

Which we haven’t.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell him because, truthfully, I don’t.

It’s hard to think when something cold and slimy is squeezing your heart.

It’s not that I don’t want to work this stuff out — I do. But not when doing so could jeopardize the entire planet, and not when I don’t even know if something bigger than both of us might force us apart.

“I just want you to know that… I can… compromise. If you need to be with someone else.”

I open my mouth, but my brain isn’t supplying words. I shake my head.

Alex goes on — “It’s true that when I contemplate you being somewhere else, with someone else… I find it… unbearable, actually. But if we were together, I think it would be different. If someone were to come to our bed rather than you going to his.”

“You want to fix the basic incompatibility in our sexualities with _threesomes_?” I ask. Oh look, there’s my words.

“I hadn’t actually considered that aspect of it, but if there’s a woman you feel drawn to—”

“If there’s a _woman_? That _I feel drawn to_?”

And just like that, the cold squeezing thing becomes a burning ball of acid.

I am incandescent with anger.

“Is that what you want? For me to procure women for threesomes?”

“What?” asks Alex, clearly unable to understand why I’m so pissed off. “No, not… It doesn’t matter whether you want a man or a woman. I just want you to be happy.”

By making sure I get my holes filled.

“Gonna enlist a little help so that I stay well-fucked?” My voice is downright frigid.

“I never said that.” Alex’s voice has gone cold as well.

This, apparently, is how we fight.

“No, you just said that if I need a little strange, you’re okay with me getting it so long as you get to… what? Watch? Is there some heretofore undisclosed kink you’d like to share?”

“Mary Sue, do not put words into my mouth.” His voice is low, clipped, warning.

I yank open the flatware drawer and drop the spoons into their slot. “I’m sorry, Alex,” I say, not sounding in the least bit sorry, “but I can’t do this right now.” I slam the door shut. “I had real reasons for avoiding this topic, and those reasons had nothing to do with whether or not I think I can give up my _harem_ for you. But I want you to know that no matter how much I like sex, and I like sex a hell of a lot, it is not the only thing I need from other people. And I can choose to have sex or not. The question is, will you be able to _bear_ it when I love somebody else?”

And that’s Elliot’s cue to pull into the driveway.

Speaking of what’s unbearable, I really don’t think I can take having Elliot walk into this.

I grab the knapsack and swing it up onto my shoulder.

I look at Alex. He is the exact shape of someone I love.

The exact shape of the hole in my heart.

And he looks utterly lost.

“I’ll keep my promise,” I say. “You’ll see me again. If you don’t want to, then leave a message with Elliot.”

And I walk out the door and get in the car.

 

Elliot is mercifully true to form. He doesn’t say a word to me until we’re on the highway.

By then I’ve gone from infuriated to queasy to heartbroken and back again a few times.

“What’s up?” asks Elliot.

“I had a fight with Alex,” I say.

“Oh.” Then a moment later, he asks, “About what?”

“Sex.”

“Oh.”

Well, I mean, if he’s going to drag it out of me.

“He wants us to get together when I’m back in my own time,” I say.

“Okay,” says Elliot. “One — that wasn’t the plan? Two — what does that have to do with sex?”

“One — there is no plan. I don’t know if we _can_ be together, which I’ve told him before, but he had to bring it up five minutes before I had to leave, and he thinks that the whole reason is because — two — he wants us to be exclusive.”

“Exclusive?”

“Only bang each other, Elliot.”

“Oh. I take it you don’t want to be exclusive?”

“I don’t know! Maybe?!” I say. “I mean — no, I don’t _want_ to, but being in a relationship means making some reasonable concessions sometimes. And only having sex with Alex seems reasonable to me. But apparently, what seems reasonable to him is letting me sleep with whomever I want as long as I let him in on the action too.”

“What the fuck?” Elliot scowls. “That doesn’t sound like Alex. Is he even into men?”

“Oh, he made it clear that he’s quite alright with me bringing home ladies too.”

“Wait. You’re bisexual?”

“Yes, I’m bisexual _and_ polyamorous,” I say. “The dream combination.”

“Whose dream?” he asks. “And why didn’t you tell me that you’re bisexual?”

“Dudes who are into threesomes where theirs is the only pickle in the jar, if you know what I mean, and I didn’t want you to think I was just trying to sound interesting.”

“Mary Sue — did you really think I’d think that?”

“Even I think I’m just trying to sound interesting when I actually say it out loud.”

“So you just stay in the closet?” he asks.

I laugh, but not in a, you know, happy way. “I tell people all the time, Elliot. I say stuff like, ‘this girl I had a crush on’ or ‘she and I used to have sex sometimes’ or ‘I’ve been in bed with a guy and a gal, but never two guys.’ Nobody bats a fucking eyelash. I’m being ‘adventurous’ and ‘free-spirited.’”

I’m making generous use of the air quotes here even though Elliot’s eyes are steadfastly on the road. Doesn’t matter. I’m getting good and wound up again.

“Every time I point out that I’m out of the closet, everyone looks around and says, ‘What closet?’ It’s like I have this layer of camouflage. Books, magazines, porn — they all say that women are more ‘flexible.’ And, I’m sad to say, that attitude is really prevalent in certain corners of the not-strictly-monogamous community. Hell, I used to believe it myself until I decided to stop letting other people decide that they get to pick my labels to suit their purposes. There are a lot of dudes out there looking for a woman who’s into other women just enough to serve their fantasies, but not enough to want to give up their dicks. And, in case you couldn’t tell, I really really hate that.”

“And you honestly think that Alex is like that?” asks Elliot.

“I didn’t,” I say, crossing my arms and glaring at the passenger-side window.

But the question’s a fair one, and it knocks a gust or two out of my sails.

Elliot sighs.

“Look, Mary Sue,” he says. “Everybody has their buttons. Someone pushes one of those buttons hard enough and — ” He makes that distant explosion sound. “I suck at knowing when I’m getting close to someone’s buttons — you may have noticed.” The corner of my mouth twitches, not that Elliot sees it. “Alex, on the other hand is very good at it. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, if he pushes a button, he meant to push it. But no one’s perfect. You’ve forgiven me for setting you off a half-dozen times.”

“Because I know you’re an idiot.”

“Fair enough, considering I just confessed to it.” He glances at me. “Do you think Alex meant to hurt you?”

“No.” I realize I believe that.

“I don’t know everything that’s going on, but it’s obvious that you’re under immense pressure right now. Is it possible that this situation has ratcheted your stress levels so high that just coming close to one of your buttons might have set you off?”

I glare at the verge for a few more moments.

“Maybe.”

Maybe, to me, this looks like the jerks I’ve dated who found out I’m poly and “flexible” and figured that meant that I was game for going down on anyone they happened to show up with, or, even better, up for being their sexual concierge.

Once — and I wish I was kidding — I had a guy point out a woman in a grocery store and ask me if I’d ask her is she was “down for a little fun.”

But those guys aren’t Alex are they?

Alex, who has no problem saying “fuck” and “cunt,” puts his sexual requests _delicately_.

So delicately that I often see fit to clarify them…

Shit.

Maybe my supposed sluttiness won’t separate us, but my temper might.

Because Alex didn’t say, “Let’s have a threesome,” did he? (Not that there’s anything wrong with threesomes, mind you. I’ve had some perfectly lovely threesomes, but they’re an adventure, a sexual scenario, not a solution to the jealousies and insecurities that come with loving someone _that way_ who also loves others _that way_.)

Alex said, “I would be more comfortable if you brought someone to our bed rather than you going to theirs.” He didn’t say whether he was referring to a one-time thing or a long-term arrangement of some kind.

And, idiot that I am, I didn’t ask, did I?

“Shit!” I say.

That cold slimy thing is back, and I sort of hiccup against it as the tears start to fall. I pull some tissues out of my knapsack.

Elliot pats my knee. “It’s not all your fault, Mary Sue. You’re not the one who thought that _now_ would be the time to bring this up.”

I don’t say anything. I just sit there, mopping up tears and snot and trying not to start sobbing on top of everything else.

“Do you want my phone?” he asks.

I take it and dial the number.

“L.A. Dramatic Actors’ Academy,” says a slightly sing-song male voice. “Michael speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hi,” I say. “May I speak to Alex Dane, please. My name is Mary Sue Zimmerman.”

“Just a sec,” says Michael.

I can hear the sound of someone muffling a phone with their hand. It takes about half a minute for Michael to confer with whomever he’s conferring, then the sound of the hand being taken away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Mr Dane’s class has already started. I’m afraid I can’t disturb him now. May I take a message?”

“Just tell him that I called, please.”

“I will,” he says. “Have a great day!”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

“There’s pen and paper in the glove compartment,” says Elliot.

I pop it open and pull out a mini legal pad and Bic pen. I put the pen back and get my Dr. Grip from the knapsack.

“Dear Alex,” It’s a good, if conventional, start.

I finish up just as Elliot’s pulling into the parking lot behind the Flying Saucer. I tear off the sheets of paper and fold them. I dig through the knapsack, looking for something to secure them, but all I find is a hair tie. I roll the pages up and wrap the tie around them. I put them in the glove compartment along with Elliot’s pad.

“You won’t forget it?” I ask.

“I won’t forget it,” he assures me.

And we’re off to get rid of Gath’gor, once and for all. I hope.

 

“Time wants to be fixed. If I’m there to aid in the process it will help me to help itself.” — That’s what Dr. Ionesco said on _Time Tripper_. While I’m afraid of what that means for Alex and me, I’m pretty sure it’s the main reason that my unlikely shenanigans have worked to thwart Gath’gor so far. And I’m praying that it will help this whole scheme fall into place today.

Elliot drives to the back of the parking lot and up a short ramp that leads to the parking lot of the business next door (a sporting goods store, not that it matters). That lot sits a bit higher than the Flying Saucer’s lot, hence the ramp. Also, it’s a heck of a lot more busy at shortly after noon on a Wednesday than a karaoke bar, so a baby blue Volvo hatchback parked in a spot that conveniently overlooks the parking lot of the bar next door isn’t quite as noticeable as it would be if it were parked in said bar’s actual, mostly empty, lot.

The plan, if you can call it that, is for Elliot to watch the lot and for me to go into the bar and scope things out.

I’m wearing the same brown and olive outfit that I put on just before leaving 1999, and I’ve braided my hair in one long rope down my back. I wind the braid up and pin it with a couple of short hair sticks. Then I jam the bucket hat on. I check myself in the visor mirror. The grey is covered up, but my makeup’s a mess. I pull out some concealer and dab it on the dark circles under my eyes. I used a bit of bronzer and blush to give myself a been-in-the-sunshine, outdoorsy sort of look.

“I’m sitting here, watching you do that,” says Elliot, “and it’s still kind of creepy how you can age and de-age yourself. You look like a college student. Well, a grad student, anyway.”

“It works because I’m giving off enough ‘young’ signals and not enough ‘old’ ones,” I say, going over everything with the stubby little blending brush from my travel kit. “The clothes are youthful, and I’m not showing my grey hairs. The hat and makeup and the fact that I’m a little plump obscure tells like fine lines or lost muscle tone in my face or hands.” I put my makeup away in the knapsack. “That said, I wish I’d thought to requisition an appearance generator.”

Elliot smiles at me and hands me his pager.

“Nobody contacts me on it anymore now that I have a cell phone, but I’ll sign off as user 99, just in case,” he says.

“Okay. Thanks,” I say, checking to make sure the thing’s set to “vibrate” before clipping it to the waistband of my skirt and pulling my t-shirt over it. The shirt is fitted, so it’s not like anyone looking at me won’t know I’m wearing a pager, but these days there’s nothing unusual about that.

It is, as they say, go time.

When I walk into the Flying Saucer, the first thing I notice is that Guy isn’t behind the bar. Instead, there’s a woman of about 50 who appears to be checking inventory.

The place isn’t absolutely dead. There are a few people here for lunch — if you can call wings and fries “lunch.” I’m pretty sure the only green vegetables in the whole place are the celery sticks that come with the Buffalo wings. I sit at the farthest end of the bar, where I can see the whole room and where I’m hopefully not too noticeable.

“Hey, I’m Joanie,” says the bartender. “What can I get ya?”

I pretend to study the taps. “The hefeweizen,” I say. “No lemon. And some fries, please.”

“Lemon in beer?” asks Joanie. “People do that?”

“Wheat beers, sometimes,” I tell her. “I don’t like it. Kills the head.”

Joanie nods at this bit of boozy wisdom and heads over to the taps. On her way, she turns toward the window into the kitchen and tells Maggie she needs an order of fries. She pulls my beer and brings it to me. “You want anything with those fries?” she asks. “Ketchup? Vinegar?”

“Malt vinegar?” I ask.

“I’m beginning to think you’ve been in a lot of real dives. Of _course_ malt vinegar.”

I grin at her. “Mmm yes. Serve it forth, my good woman.”

She laughs and heads back to the kitchen.

A couple minutes later she returns with the fries and a bottle of malt vinegar.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she says.

“Will do,” I reply.

Joanie goes back to counting bottles while I eat my fries and watch the room. Not much happens. A few people wander in and out. I’m surprised that the Flying Saucer even bothers being open at this time of day. Most bars that I know of don’t open until it’s time for folks to be heading home from work — two or three in the afternoon at the earliest, unless they have an actual full lunch menu.

Which reminds me, why would Tommy be here, of all places, at shortly after two in the afternoon? Karaoke doesn’t start until six on weeknights. The contest won’t start until eight, and anyway, the SETI nerds seem more interested in just relaxing and belting out some tunes on open mic nights.

I’m still mulling this over by the time I finish my food and beer. I pay up with Joanie and head down the hall to the bathroom. Wherever Gath’gor is, it isn’t in the barroom. He isn’t in the ladies’ either. On my way back toward the bar, I pretend to be deeply interested in the various memorabilia hanging on the walls of the hallway. My plan is to listen at the men’s room until I’m sure it’s empty, then risk a peek, but, as it turns out, I don’t have to.

While I’m checking out a behind-the-scenes photo of Andreas Katsulas getting made up, one of the waitresses knocks on the office door and says, “Mr. Gaffin? I got your lunch.”

A muffled voice answers back, “Bring it in, then.”

She opens the door, and I glance in the direction of the office.

He’s looking at some papers on his desk, but that’s definitely him. Except for being better-dressed, he looks exactly the same as he did fourteen years ago.

The waitress sets the plate on his desk. “Do you need anything else?” she asks.

“Did I say I did?” Still Mr. Manners after all this time.

She puts on her fake smile — the one she probably reserves for every condescending asshole she deals with in her line of work. “Okay,” she says as she’s leaving.

“And shut the door!” he calls after her, but she’s already pulling it closed behind her.

And that’s when the pager goes off. I check the message — 411-99. Elliot wants an update. The pay phone is at the end of the hallway nearest the bar.

“Anything?” he asks.

“Steve’s in his office,” I say. “But I haven’t seen Guy or Tommy. You?”

“Nada. I checked the back door, but it still has that panel over the lock. Nobody’s going in through that thing unless someone on the inside opens it for them.”

“The sign says it’s alarmed. I’m inclined to believe it. The keyhole on the hush box looks pretty well-used. They probably use that door for deliveries.”

It’s not that we’re expecting anyone to break in. We just want to know who’s coming and going. That would be difficult if folks could just waltz through the back door.

“Listen, if Steve’s in there, I think you should come out,” says Elliot.

“No,” I say. “I want to keep an eye on things.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“He can’t do anything to me, remember?”

“If he sees you, it’ll tip him off.”

“To what?” I ask. “That I’m trying to stop him? He already knows that.”

“Guy’s here,” says Elliot. “He’s sprinting across the parking lot like there’s a fire.”

Sure enough, as soon as Elliot says “fire,” Guy comes bursting through the door, still pulling his aloha shirt on over a t-shirt with the Disneyland logo on it. He rushes over to the bar and grabs an apron.

“God, Joanie,” he says, “I’m so sorry about this.”

“Relax, honey,” says Joanie. “It’s barely two. How’s Emily?”

“She’s fine. The lady who stays with her in the afternoon got caught in traffic is all.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear she’s okay. How’re you holding up?”

“Me?” Guy seems genuinely surprised to have someone ask how he’s doing. “I’m… good. I’m doing good. I’d better punch in.”

“I already did it for you,” says Joanie.

“You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?” he asks, but he’s grinning at her.

“Hell no. What’s Bruce gonna do? Fire me? Then he’d have to divorce me, and he can’t afford that.” They both laugh.

“Mary Sue?” It’s Elliot. I was so busy eavesdropping, I kinda forgot about him.

“I’m on my way.”

I really can’t stay now that Guy’s here. There’s too much chance that he’ll recognize me. I hang up the phone and head toward the door. I only get halfway when the pager goes off again — 911-99.

What the hell? Emergency, come here quick? Emergency, call me? What do you want, Elliot?

This is what comes of being old. I only used my pager as an actual fucking pager. I know the most basic codes, but that’s it. I suspect Elliot knows even fewer.

The pager buzzes — 221-99.

Okay, that one I know — Where are you? I take it to mean I should get my ass out there.

It doesn’t take long to figure out what set Elliot off — two of the Spice Girls (Scary and Ginger, actually) are standing in the parking lot next to what I’m pretty sure is the ZZ Top car. They’re wearing their outfits from the video for “Wannabe.”

Also, they’re glowing a lovely shade of aqua.

Somehow, I suspect these may be aliens sent to fetch Gath’gor.

Well, time to see if I still possess some acting skills. I march up to Scary and Ginger, and standing between them and the street, I say, “You seek the Unkind?”

“He must answer for his crimes,” affirms Ginger.

Well, hot diggity.

“He’s in there?” asks Scary, pointing at the Flying Saucer.

“Ah, yes,” I say. “But the situation calls for some subtlety. This is a pre-contact civilization.”

“We’re aware of that,” answers Scary. “That is why we chose to present ourselves as members of it.”

“Yes, I see that,” I say. “However, these particular members of this species will cause a great deal of unwanted attention.”

“They will?” asks Ginger.

“The locals will utterly freak out,” I say. “You’ll be mobbed. Really, you can’t be seen like this.”

In the meantime, Elliot has come down from the other parking lot to join our little group and further block passersby from seeing the aliens, which is helpful since I’m not as big as two entire Spice Girls and a Ford hot rod.

“I’m open to suggestions,” says Scary.

“Perhaps the local authorities?” says Elliot.

Scary and Ginger give me identical puzzled looks.

“The police,” I say.

Scary still looks puzzled, but Ginger elbows her in the ribs.

“You know,” she says. “Bad boys, bad boys, watcha gonna do?”

“The cops?” says Scary. “It’s not a bad idea. It’s doubtful that anyone would attempt to stop the cops from taking Gath’gor, if it turns out that he is indeed here.”

She puts her hand at her hip and fiddles a bit with what appears to be the air about an inch and a half away from it. She turns into… something tall and bipedal and teal with long, ribbonlike streamers coming from the top of her head that wave gently for a moment before she becomes a tall blond cop in a navy blue uniform. The other one undergoes a similar transformation, and I get a glimpse of large brown and amber eyes before she becomes a male cop with grey hair and a little bit of a belly. The grey-haired cop opens the door to the car and bends over the steering wheel. The hot rod becomes a standard black and white police cruiser.

“Now,” says Blond Cop. “Perhaps you can tell me who you are.”

“You can call me Mary Sue,” I say. “I’m a time traveler.”

“Time travel has been outlawed by galactic treaty,” says Older Cop.

“Not when I’m from, it hasn’t,” I say. “Although I can see why it certainly should be in your time — what with idiots like Gath’gor jumping into whatever device he can scrounge up and then bumbling around in the past like an ox, breaking things and just generally causing havoc. I’ve been cleaning up his messes over eighteen of the local years. And honestly, I’m not keen to take him back to my time. He probably wouldn’t make it what with the time sickness and all.”

“Time sickness?” asks Older Cop.

“Like I said — you can’t just go jumping into any old half-tested device — scrambles the brain,” I say. “Get this — he insists that the device he used was invented by the Thermians. And that he’s here to stop the Thermians and these monkeys from building the greatest spaceship ever known and destroying the Sarris Dominion.”

The Blond Cop busts up.

“That’s a good one,” she says. “I mean the Thermians?! They’re a nice bunch — smart — if there’s something they can’t reverse-engineer I don’t know what it is, but they couldn’t invent the inclined plane without seeing it in action first.”

“Do you really believe this furgo and tiltok story?” asks Older Cop.

“I don’t know,” says Blond Cop, “but if she can lead me to Gath’gor, I’ll believe her if she says she’s the Great Engineer Herself. I want that bastard to rot in the deepest hole we can put him in.”

The look the two cops give each other then reminds me that Gath’gor is an extremely bad person who has done some extremely vicious things.

“Agreed,” says Older Cop. “Let’s go.”

We head toward the bar.

“By the way,” I say, “he uses the alias Gary Gaffin here.”

“Gaffin, got it,” says Older Cop.

“Who’s this?” asks Blond Cop, gesturing toward Elliot with her thumb.

“A local who happened to see Gath’gor without his appearance generator,” I say. “He’s been helping me.”

“You didn’t just wipe his memory?” asks Older Cop.

What the — ?!

“Nah,” I say. “No sense in messing up a perfectly good brain. Nobody here is going to believe him and it isn’t distressing him.”

“Yeah,” says Blond Cop. “The side effects _are_ unfortunate.”

The aliens enter the bar before Elliot and me. Behind their backs, I point to his car and mouth, “Go!” He shakes his head.

“Don’t make me worry about you!” I hiss.

“I’ll be in the car,” he whispers back.

I follow the aliens through the door.

Joanie comes out from behind the bar and meets the cops.

“Is there something I can help you officers with?” she asks.

“We need to talk to Gary Gaffin,” says Older Cop. “Is he here?”

Joanie nods and gestures toward the hallway. “He’s in his office. It’s on the left.”

I follow the cops, making sure to keep my head tilted so the brim of my hat hides my face. I don’t want Guy to recognize me.

Blond Cop nods and Older Cop and opens the door.

“What’s the meaning of this!?” yells Gath’gor.

I nearly lose it. Who the hell actually says that?

The alien cops enter the little office and position themselves on either side of the desk, effectively cutting Gath’gor off unless he wants to go over the desk, and when he sees me shutting the door and pulling off my hat, he decides he wants to do exactly that, scattering what looks like a bunch of work schedules.

The alien cops each grab one of his arms and restrain him easily. Blond Cop pulls out some strange-looking manacles and puts them on Gath’gor’s wrists. She digs around at his waist until she finds his appearance generator and yanks it off. Gath’gor is revealed in all his Fatu-Krey glory.

He immediately starts calling me a bitch and a tiny-brained furry-tits, which is at least, one I haven’t heard. I can’t decide if it's supposed to insult me for my gender or for being a mammal. He’s raving about how I’m working for the Thermians and aiding them in their rebellion. I just smile serenely at him, which only makes him angrier and less coherent.

I cluck my tongue and say, “Time sickness,” sort of sadly.

Older Cop, in the meantime has produced some kind of device that looks like a fat glow tube. He jabs Gath’gor with it, then puts it into a small box that has a read-out screen on one end. He peers at it for a second.

“That’s him.”

“And?” asks Blond Cop.

“You were right. The message was legit.”

“And I think you owe someone an apology.” Blond Cop looks significantly at me.

“Sorry,” says Older Cop.

“Ah, don’t worry,” I say. “I would’ve doubted me too.”

“Alright,” says Blond Cop. “Let’s get him out of here. I’ll feel better once we’ve got him back to the ship and behind a nice, thick force field.

I was unaware that force-fields have thickness, but whatever.

Blond Cop reattaches Gath’gor’s appearance generator, turning him back into Steve. Then she and Older Cop frog-march him on out of there. I follow them. They stuff Steve into the back of the “patrol car” and drive away. I watch as the car gets smaller and smaller, far faster than it should given the distance it’s traveled. There’s a weird popping sound, and it disappears completely.

I look around. It appears that half the bar, including Joanie, has come out to witness the whole spectacle. Guy isn’t with them. I assume he stayed in the Flying Saucer to make sure no one took advantage of the situation to steal anything from the bar. None of the patrons in the parking lot seems to have noticed anything unusual about the arrest, and after a few more moments, they head back into the building.

Elliot comes jogging across the parking lot to where I’m still standing, looking at the spot where the police car disappeared.

“Why am I still here, Elliot?”

I don’t expect an answer and Elliot doesn’t give me one. He just puts an arm around my shoulder. I lean against him and try not to give in to the panic that’s bubbling up from somewhere around my liver.

What? What could Gath’gor have set in motion that’s going to go off in — I pull the beeper off my waistband and check the time — seven minutes that will change time in two years?

I push back at the memory of that hotel room with its missing corners and Laliari cowering beside the bed and the back wall missing because it fell outside the bubble of a different timeline.

But I can’t stop it — the vertigo that caused me to be sick even though the brain sharks never had.

Hell, there hadn’t even been a brain guppy.

Because I was in the bubble.

And my memories didn’t change.

I look at Elliot.

“I’m an idiot,” I say.

“You’ll get no argument from me,” says Elliot, affectionately.

“Come on.” I stick my hat back on and take Elliot’s hand. “We need to get into the office,” I say as we run back to the Flying Saucer.

It turns out to be surprisingly easy. The customers are all up at the bar, chattering in excited little groups. Elliot and I are able to slip around them and right into the office.

I grab the scattered schedules while Elliot quietly closes the door.

I start sorting through them until I find the one for the first half of June. All that’s written on it is “Fleegman — off (per vaca. Req.)” in the box for the seventh, and in the margin, “Req. denied — G.G.” Fleegman won’t be at Quest Con 16 because he needs this job. Someone named Emily needs care at home. And because he “flakes” on 16, he won’t be at 17 or 18 either.

I grab a fresh form and lay it over the old one, but my hand is shaking. Elliot comes over to the desk and takes the pen from me. He carefully traces the dates at the top of the paper and the info in the box for the seventh.

He’s crumpling up the original when the gold sparkles start.

“Two years, Elliot,” I say.

“It’s a date,” he replies, smiling.

 

There are some head fishies, but they’re not bad.

The hotel room is perfectly intact.

And, best of all — Laliari and Fred and the Accelerator are dissolving into their own shower of golden glitter.

And then it’s just me. I’m standing in the middle of my upgraded hotel room with a knapsack leaning against my ankle while someone knocks at the door.

“Mary Sue? You ready?”

It’s Cece.

I go to the door and open it.

“You said you were going to get your sweater,” she says.

“Huh?” I say, brilliantly.

“You said you wanted a sweater because it can get cold on the roof, but you’ve spent the last twenty minutes changing into a lighter outfit and braiding your hair.”

Roof?

Yes. Roof. And Cece and a joint. That sounds like a stellar plan, actually.

“Let me put on something warmer,” I say.

 

I wake up around 9:30 the next morning to my phone ringing.

It’s Shondra.

“You missed breakfast,” she says. “It’s not like you to miss a free meal.”

“It’s not free,” I point out groggily. “It’s included in the price of the room.”

“It’s _really_ not like you to miss a meal you’ve already paid for. How late did Cece keep you up?”

“Pretty late, but I think she’ll tell you it was me keeping her up.”

“You have to remind her that normal people need more than five hours of sleep.”

“I’ve got a couple things to do here, but I’ll be down in a bit,” I tell her. “If you’re dead set on me having a free meal, the Starbucks has some great blueberry muffins.”

“That’s not free.”

“It is to me, if you buy it.”

“Very funny,” she says. “Darius and I are going to hit the artists’ room one more time. Meet us there.”

“Okay,” I say.

I get up and get dressed, brush my hair, put on makeup, _et cetera_. Then I call Miles. Miles is the guy who does my job on my off nights. He’s a college student, so he can only do a couple nights a week during the school year, but he’s always happy to get extra shifts in the summer. He was already going to work tonight, but he’s happy to take tomorrow night as well.

Then I call the airline and move my flight to Tuesday night. There’s a surcharge, of course, but the few remaining bills in the knapsack should cover it.

Next is Trent. I get his machine. I explain that I’m staying a couple days over and ask him to keep feeding Lola. “If you can’t, give the key to Gunner. He isn’t wild about cats, but he’ll put food and water in the bowls.”

I call Gunner and also get his machine. Well, Gunner usually works the Sunday morning shift, so no surprise there. I give him the heads-up on my change in plans as well.

Then I call Frank and finally, Elliot.

 

On my way down to the dealer's room, I drop my bags at Cece's. She's on her way out with half a bagel in her hand. She gives me the other half and tells me that she'll see me at the ending ceremony.

"You got a replacement then?" I ask, walking with her to the elevator.

"Mmmf." She swallows her bite of bagel. "Hamilton McDonald. You remember him?"

I nod. "He used to emcee back when everything was strictly volunteers."

"Yeah, well he'll get paid for this one -- combat pay, probably. I still can't find any of the cast."

I pat her shoulder. "I have the feeling this is going to be a great con for miracles, Cece."

“Good. I could use about six of them.”

Cece and I split up, and I head to the front desk to check out, then I’m off to the dealers’ room.

I end up hanging out with Shondra and Darius most of the morning. I give Darius back his costume, but I tell him that I got make-up on the wig.

“Let me clean it and mail it back to you,” I say. I’m one of the few people that Darius trusts with his cosplay stuff, probably because of my background. Luckily, I know where he gets his wigs.

After we support the arts a little more, we go grab some lunch. I have a cheeseburger. It's been an age since I've had a cheeseburger.

I'm too nervous to finish it.

I should skip out now, but I can't help it, I have to see the ending ceremony. I need to see them step out of that command module with my own two eyes.

We meet Cece in the main hall.

"There you are," she says. "I saved you some seats." She gestures to the row right behind the one reserved for organizers.

Well, shit. I'd forgotten that Cece always saves us seats right behind where she's sitting so that we can all be together.

That is way too close. I want to see the cast, but I don't want them to see me.

I can’t come up with an excuse to sit at the back quickly enough though, so I end up sitting next to Darius.

The ceremony starts off with the usual announcements, and the organizers are brought up on stage for a round of applause, and some bouquets of roses.

And then it’s time to bring out the cast. Someone comes out for a little conference with Hamilton, which I’m sure goes something like, “They’re not here yet. Stall.”

Hamilton’s a pretty decent emcee, but the audience is getting tired and a lot of them have planes to catch. It isn’t long before they’re getting cranky. I’d say a few of them are out for blood when I first hear it.

Of course, I was listening for it, but the low rumble soon grows loud enough for everyone to notice. It becomes a roaring clamor that can’t be ignored. The entire building feels like it’s rattling. Some people shout, “Earthquake!” but it’s not quite that.

Then the stage right wall comes falling in, followed by, of all things, the command section of the NSEA Protector which proceeds to plow through half the stage.

It’s chaos. People are screaming and running around, but I’m rooted to my seat, watching as the hatch opens, the dusty air catching the light spilling from the doorway…

…and Tommy Weber stumbles out onto the stage. He stares bewildered at the audience, which itself is just as bewildered for about half a second before deciding that this is just the most awesome ending ceremony show in the history of Questie-kind. They go wild, clapping and cheering and jumping out of their seats.

Tommy is followed by Gwen, and then Guy Fleegman. There’s a pause, and Fred comes out, hand in hand with Laliari. And then Alex, who (I won’t lie) looks pretty rough, but beautifully alive. Finally, Jason emerges and goes to where the rest of the cast are waiting. He hugs Tommy, Gwen, and Alex(!) all at the same time.

And then a large Fatu-Krey lurches through the door and raises a weapon. Jason does (I kid you not) one of those ridiculous “tactical” stunt rolls and shoots him with a nebulizer. The Fatu-Krey (whom I assume was Sarris), disappears in a puff of smoke and sparks that looks very much like a mediocre special effect, but which I know to be the real deal.

Then Jason tosses the nebulizer to Tommy and gives Gwen the old dip-and-kiss.

The crowd goes bonkers. I’m pretty sure every Tawny/Taggart shipper in the audience develops a sudden case of the vapors.

Jason quits making out with Gwen and salutes some kids in the front row, then pulls everyone to the front of the stage for a group bow.

And the audience is cheering and applauding.

That’s when I spot Elliot waving me down from the nearest exit.

“I’ve gotta go,” I say to Cece – well, shout to Cece. It’s really loud in here right now.

“What? Now?” she asks.

“My ride’s here.” I nod toward Elliot.

“Elliot Spiegel is your ride?” asks Cece.

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s a very safe driver.”

Shondra leans around Darius and yells, “Why is Elliot Spiegel trying to get your attention?”

“He promised me a ride and he really hates getting caught in traffic,” I yell back, as if that’s an actual answer.

Cece rolls her eyes. “Fine, keep your secrets.” She hands me a keycard. “Here’s the spare. Just leave it on the dresser when you’re done.”

"Thanks, Cece."

Thankfully, we're seated near the end of the row. I manage to extricate myself and head toward the exit.

But I can't resist one more glance back at the stage.

I freeze.

Alex is staring back at me.

He holds my gaze for a moment. I know he sees me.

And then he looks away, his gaze sliding off me as if he’s seen something he’d rather pretend he hasn’t seen.

And something squeezes my chest so hard I think my ribs will crack.

I knew.

I _knew_ it was all too good to be true.

Because, back in my own time, we’re strangers.

Or maybe it was just the fight.

He’s had two years to decide I’m not worth the trouble.

Sorrow and regret crash over me.

“Mary Sue?”

It's Elliot. He's come down to where I'm standing.

Oh, this is very bad. I can't let Fred see me with Elliot.

That shocks me out of my impending panic.

I grab Elliot’s arm and start propelling him back up the aisle.

"I'm trying to NOT be noticed," I say.

“Okaaayy," says Elliot.

"Oh, hey! Isn't that the consultant -- what'sername?-- Maggie May?"

I don’t even need to look, but I glance over my shoulder anyway.

And, sure enough, it's fucking Jason Nesmith, talking loudly enough to be picked up by the mic Hamilton is holding in front of Gwen.

"Isn't that her, Alex?"

"I don't think so," says Alex in that cold, bored drawl he uses when a discussion is beneath him.

I grab Elliot and drag him through the door into the lobby.

"Any particular reason why I’m spiriting you away before Alex can get a look at you?”

“Too late for that. You’re spiriting me away before Fred can get a look.”

“Fred?”

"Yes. Fred."

“Fred and that strange woman he was holding hands with,” says Elliot, once we're in the elevator. “That’s who sent you?”

“Mrs. Spiegel didn’t raise fools,” I say.

“You haven’t met my sister,” says Elliot.

By now, we’re at Cece’s room. Elliot grabs my suitcase, and I sling the knapsack up onto my shoulder. I mean, it’s mine now, right? A souvenir?

I drop the keycard onto the dresser.

“Fred and Laliari will get a message soon,” I say as we head back to the elevator. “That message will set off a chain of events, the result of which is that they’ll travel back in time to Friday and send me on my merry way — my past, their future.”

“This is why I hated doing time travel episodes,” says Elliot. “So you’re afraid that if they know ahead of time that it’s you who has to be sent back, it’ll screw up the whole works?”

“Something like that,” I say. “And…”

“And?”

“I’d prefer to think that Fred chose me for actual reasons, not just because he already knows that I’m the one he’ll send.”

We’re back in the lobby. “Even if he knew, that doesn’t diminish what you accomplished.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I just… I want to believe that he just believed in me, you know?”

“Fair enough," says Elliot.

Once again, I'm grateful to whatever higher power made Elliot Spiegel a silent driver.

Or maybe he's just preoccupied.

I sure am.

Part of me is already detaching. I wonder if Alex actually remembers me.

Does he still remember all of it and now he can’t believe that he ever felt something for me? Or am I literally a stranger?

Frank remembered me, so it’s probably that first one.

I won't be able to avoid Alex tomorrow. Tomorrow, all the people that I’ve promised an explanation to – and a few that I haven’t – will be at Frank’s. That event is already in motion. I'll have to sit there and tell them all who I am and why I came into their lives. And Alex will be there listening as if it’s all just a subject of mild intellectual interest to him.

Then I'll go home and pretend none of this happened.

Just to make sure I'm extra maudlin – I imagine Mi-Na and Kami finally talking me into visiting them in Lake Tahoe, so that I can spend a week being cut to pieces by memories.

Elliot drops me at Frank's.

We’re all standing in the courtyard, doing the greeting and hugging and “So great to see you!” thing when Elliot excuses himself and heads to his car.

"You're not staying?" I ask.

"I have some things to do."

He hugs me.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says.

“Alright.”

Elliot looks like he has something else to say, but he just gives Frank and Letitia a little wave before he gets back in his car and leaves.

 

Now it’s almost six, and I’ve been at Frank’s for about two hours — making phone calls and plans for tomorrow — when the familiar blue Pontiac pulls into the driveway just a little too fast and parks just a little too abruptly. I’m surprised that a piece of it doesn’t fall off.

Alex gets out of the car and looks back and forth between the main house and the guest house as if he can’t decide which one he should try. He hasn’t even bothered to change out of his costume.

“You better go take care of him,” says Letitia. “He’s making me dizzy just watching.”

“Let us know if you need anything,” adds Frank.

“Thanks,” I reply mechanically, already at the door.

Alex’s costume is filthy. His prosthetic is full of holes and has something pinkish splattered on it.

“Hi,” I say, walking about half the distance from the door to where he’s standing.

“Mary Sue,” he replies, but he doesn’t make the slightest move toward me. “Elliot wanted me to give you a message.”

“Elliot sent you?”

He raises one eyebrow.

“Right,” I say. “How else would you know I’m here? So what’s the message?”

He hands me half a sheet of paper torn from a legal pad and folded twice.  I unfold it and read.   

> Hey, dumbass,
> 
> You told Alex never, under any circumstances, to contact you at con.
> 
> Love, El

“Fuck,” I say. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Alex smiles. It’s a small smile and a more-hopeful-than-certain smile, but he starts walking toward me – slowly, like I might startle.

Yeah, I remember how we left things.

How I left things.

“Alex,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I totally flew off the handle. I’m pretty sure you weren’t even saying what I thought you were saying, and if you were, that’s still no excuse. You’ve been so good to me, and I owed you the benefit of the doubt, and I just— I…”

“You’ve been forgiven for years, Mary Sue,” he says, finally coming close enough to touch me. “May I kiss you?” he asks.

“Yes. Hell yes! Please do,” I say.

And he does. He presses his mouth to mine, and I can’t resist — I take a little taste.

He pulls back.

“Does this mean I’m also forgiven?” he asks.

“I didn’t think I had anything to forgive.”

“Really? Not even my wretched timing?”

“Fine,” I say. “You’re forgiven.”

He kisses me again — another soft, sweet, and far-too-brief press of lips.

“I mean, there’s still a lot to talk about,” I say, “if we want to… if you want… if we’re going to… uhm—”

He places one hand against my cheek, and I tilt my head into his palm.

“Later.” He looks at me as if he’s half-expecting me to disappear. “There is a ‘later,’ right? This _is_ the time you’re supposed to be in?”

“Yeah,” I say. “This is it. This is where I belong.”

“Damn straight,” he says, smiling so big that every line on his face deepens, and my heart flip-flops like it does sometimes right before it starts beating way too fast, and he finally (finally!) wraps his arms around me and pulls me close and we kiss, deep and warm and liquid, and he tastes like… Alex.

But he smells like hell.

“Do I want to know what that stuff is on your head?” I ask.

“Trust me, you do not.”

I give him one more kiss. “We’d better get you cleaned up.”

“Please,” he says. “I haven’t eaten nor slept in a bed in over 24 hours.”

“The Thermians didn’t feed you?” I ask over my shoulder as I lead the way into the guest house.

“ _Kep’mok_ bloodticks. Jason got a steak, and Gwen got some kind of salad. She also got a Tauren pleasure bed, whereas I was given—”

“—spikes,” I say, wincing.

“I ended up dozing in a conference room chair.”

“Okay,” I say. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna take a shower while I make some...” I try to guess at the contents of the kitchen in the main house. “...grilled cheese sandwiches. Then we’re going to eat those sandwiches and go to bed.”

“You’re good at this,” he replies.

“Mm-hmm. Now get your sweet arse down the stairs.” I give said arse a little squeeze for emphasis.

So I make sandwiches and toss pillows off the bed, and, when Alex is done with his shower, I put Neosporin and bandages on his hands.

“Just how many Fatu-Krey did you hit?” I ask as I examine his torn knuckles.

“Quite a few,” he says. “I was Lazarus again, for a minute, and Lazarus was very angry.”

“Quellek?”

He nods. “Someday I’ll tell you about him.”

So I leave it.

Alex had a bag with a change of clothes in the car, so he’s able to put on clean underwear to sleep in. I strip down to my underwear too. My t-shirt has mysterious splotches on it, and I’m pretty sure the green ones and the blue ones are blood. We both climb into bed. It’s only seven-thirty, but I was up late last night hanging out on the roof with Cece.

I’m asleep within minutes. I suspect Alex was too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs!
> 
> Blondie -- [Denis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahGxiSV_LH0) \-- Neil Levenson  
> Boney M -- [Rivers of Babylon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ta42xU2UXLA) \-- Brent Dowe and Trevor McNaughton  
> Peter Gabriel -- [Solsbury Hill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OO2PuGz-H8)  
> Freddy Fender -- [Before the Next Teardrop Falls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ay5ciplY4Pg) \-- Vivian Keith and Ben Peters  
> Audrey Hepburn -- [_La Vie en rose_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MO2FSOoqtcg) \-- Édith Piaf, Louiguy, and Marguerite Monnot -- Marguerite Monnot wrote the melody, so if it gets stuck in your head too, you know who to blame.  
> Georgia Wettlin-Larsen -- [Ojibway Square Dance (Love Song)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NGaFSGq5rV8) \-- Traditional -- Observant readers may notice that KBHR is the radio station featured in _Northern Exposure_. Here's my favorite song from the show.  
> Spice Girls -- [Wannabe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJLIiF15wjQ) \-- Melanie C, Emma Bunton, Matt Rowe, Melanie Brown, Geri Halliwell, Richard “Biff” Stannard, Victoria Beckham


	12. Epilogue --5 Times Mary Sue was Awake in the Middle of the Night and 1 Time She was Asleep Like Someone with Some Damn Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine burns the midnight oil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at you! You made it to the end! That was long, wasn't it? But here we are!
> 
> I don't think there's anything worth warning about in this chapter. Nightmare Gath'gor and nightmare Kevin show up to be their usual nightmare selves, but they're pretty fangless these days. ; )

Monday, June 7, 1999 — L.A.

 

“Every inch of my body hurts.”

I don’t know if Alex was already awake, or if my moving around woke him up. It’s almost three-thirty a.m. and I’m awake because, of course, I need to pee.

“I’ll bring you back some Advil,” I say and kiss his forehead.

“You’re an angel,” he replies.

“Hardly,” I say as I head into the bathroom.

Oddly enough, the guest house hasn’t been cleared out since the last time I was here. If Letitia hadn’t come home, I’d understand Frank not bothering with it, but she moved back in over a year ago. Anyway, the bottle of Advil I bought in 1997 is still here, and it even has another month to go before hitting its expiration date. I grab the bottle and a glass of water before returning to the bedroom.

Alex winces as he sits up to take the medicine.

“I’m too old for this nonsense,” he says.

“Not like back in your MI6 days?”

I lean across him to put the glass and the bottle of pills on the bedside table.

“Smartarse,” he says, but he’s smiling that crooked little smile at me anyway.

He reaches out and strokes my cheek. I close my eyes and feel his fingers and the texture of the gauze I wrapped around his knuckles earlier.

It’s the witching hour, and we’re both wide awake.

Alex looks too beat-up for me to lay my head on his chest, so I lie back down and hold out my hand toward him.

“Come on,” I say.

He accepts my invitation, laying his head against my shoulder just above my breast.

I kiss the top of his head.

“I have a question,” he says.

“Only one?” I ask.

“How did you ever get involved in all of this?”

“Fred.”

“Fred? Fred _Kwan_?”

“Yeah. We’ve known each other for years.” I explain about how the Thermians copied the time travel device from _Time Tripper_ and how it works and who stole the plans for it and how he used it to undermine the Thermians and why Fred thought I was the best choice to fix that.

“So what happens now?” asks Alex.

“Now I guess I tell all interested parties my story. That’s why I delayed going home and why I invited everyone here tomorrow.”

“I rather meant, ‘What happens between us?’”

“Oh,” I say. That.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I don’t even know what’s possible. We didn’t meet when I was in my own time. We’re not supposed to be… together.”

“It certainly feels as if we’re supposed to be together.”

“Well, yeah. But I’m not talking about what our hormones want. I’m talking about time trying to put itself back together after I careened through it, just doing whatever felt good.”

“You think that fate has something else in store for us?” he asks.

“I don’t really believe in fate, but I _do_ believe that any tech the Thermians make will work the way they think it should. As someone out of her own time, my actions aren’t part of the natural flow of time. According to _Time Tripper_ , only actions taken by people in their natural time will have any lasting effect. My guess is that if Gath’gor had succeeded, something else would have taken Sarris down — autocracies always fail eventually — I just didn’t want the Thermians or you and the rest of the cast getting hurt in the process.

“But choosing to be with you? The things we did together — those were actions I took when I wasn’t in my own place in time. They shouldn’t last.”

Alex cups my cheek, pulls me closer, and kisses me. “You’re forgetting that _I_ chose those things as well,” he says.

“I’m not forgetting,” I say. “I’m just not sure if that cancels out what I did. I don’t know if we can have a future together.”

“But what do you _want_?” he asks.

“This,” I say, curling my arm around his shoulder. “I do want to try. I mean, nobody ever really knows, do they? I don’t want to say I didn’t even try to be with you — not when I want it so much. But I also want to be honest with you about the possibility that there may be forces at work that are beyond our control.

“So what do you want?” I’m holding my breath, and I’m sure he can hear my heart thudding.

“You,” he says, “bonny and buxom in bed, and at board for all the rest of my days.”

“Oh,” I say. I wasn’t expecting that.

So, of course, I say something stupid.

“You know that ‘buxom’ means ‘obedient’ in this case, right?”

I feel the low vibration of his laughter.

“I think you know how much I value your obedience,” he says.

“But you do mean the essential part? The getting married part?”

“Why not? You know that I love you, and I… think that… you feel the same?”

“I do,” I say. “I mean, I do know that you love me, and I love you too. And I know that you’ve been… involved with me for a very long time, and you’ve probably been waiting, and I feel terrible that you’ve been putting part of your life on hold for me, and you’ve been _waiting_ , and I _wanted_ you to wait. I wanted to ask you to wait so many times, but… I’m… I’m…”

“Not interested in marriage?”

“No. I mean… maybe? If I were to marry someone, it would be you. But it’s been four months for me. And I know it’s been _years_ for you, Alex…”

He leans up on his elbow and looks me in the eye.

“You are not obligated to reward me for my patience.”

He kisses me.

“I waited because I wanted to,” he says. “I waited because I had nothing to lose. By the time I’d broken up with Amber for the second time, I’d come to the conclusion that relationships were simply a distraction that offered little benefit. And then you came back, and I realized that there was one exception. I had nothing to lose by waiting — it was exactly how I expected my life to proceed anyway — and I had everything to gain.”

I touch his face, stroke my thumb across his eyebrow.

“I do want to be with you,” I say. “I just… I’m…”

He lays his head back on my shoulder.

“Out with it, then,” he says. “Think aloud if you have to.”

Well, he’s asking for it, you know?

I take a deep breath and just start talking.

“It’s just that I don’t know who we are together, you know? I know that you’re caring and kind and… weirdly playful. I know I can count on you when I really need to — but I don’t know what we’re like together when there isn’t doom hanging over my head or when you’re not trying to make the most of your limited time with me. I don’t know what we’re like when we have the luxury of taking one another for granted. Not that I want you to take me for granted or vice versa. I mean, I do want that sometimes. I want us to know that we can focus on other things sometimes and know that the other one will still be there and that our focus will always shift back to each other. I want to know you when you’re not on your best behavior. I want you to know me when I’m feeling prickly or feeling clingy or just feeling bored. And, honestly, with everything that’s happened, I’m not one-hundred percent sure who I am anymore. My head’s been rearranged so many times. And I don’t know how we’ll resolve the fact that I’m polyamorous and you’re—”

He puts a hand to my mouth.

“Your heart sounds like it’s trying to escape your body.”

“Alex…”

“Would you consider living with me then?”

“Living with you?”

“It would give you time to find yourself and ample opportunity to observe our dynamic,” he points out.

“Here? In California?”

Duh, Mary Sue. Of course in California.

“I _am_ still interested in pursuing a career in acting.” He says these words very carefully.

I can tell he doesn’t want me to ask him to choose.

And, honestly? That’s fair.

I can bake and write anywhere.

I’m not exactly keen on California, but I don’t hate it either. At least it’s not flat.

And I have friends here now.

And I’m an adult who can do whatever she wants.

And it’s not like I haven’t been considering it.

And I’ll hate myself if I don’t take this chance.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll live with you.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure that I want to be with you.” I comb my fingers through his hair. “I want to be in your bed and at your board, while you tread the boards or… whatever. I’m sure of that much.”

“And others?” he asks.

“You don’t want me having sex with other people,” I say, taking care to be precise.

“I don’t. I would feel… left out.”

“But you think maybe you wouldn’t feel left out if you were… well… not left out?”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

“You don’t have to be. Look, if I move here, I’m going to be leaving two of the people I’m dating behind, and the third one isn’t someone… with whom I have a strong connection. We’d be… exclusive-by-default at first, and we can just see how we are about this… If you’re willing to take that chance.”

“Leave everything open to possibility?” he asks.

“I won’t do anything sexual with anyone else if you’re not comfortable with it,” I say. “It might not even come up, but I’d like to know how we weather it before I make a commitment in front of friends, family, and government officials.”

“Alright.”

“And sometimes I’m just going to have romantic feelings about people.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “I don't _think_ I'd mind that.”

“So we’re going to do this?” I ask.

“Hell, yes.”

 

 

Tuesday, June 22, 1999 — Kalamazoo

 

“Ow! Fuck!”

“Are you okay?” I ask from outside the bathroom door.

“Fine,” says Alex. “Your apartment was built for Munchkins.”

The toilet is located under the slope of the roof. I assume from the loud noise that preceded the profanity, that he bumped his head… again.

It’s nearly four in the morning. I’ve finally gotten back into the swing of bakery hours now that I only have one more week at the bakery. Monday and Tuesday are my nights off, however, and Alex and I have been working on packing up my stuff.

Most of it will be going into storage, and I’m having a hard time deciding what I can live without for the foreseeable future. I’m sorting books when Alex comes out of the bathroom.

“How you holding up?” I ask.

“I’m fine, so long as I keep to the center of any given room.” He sits on the futon and continues wrapping wine glasses in newspaper.

I chuckle at that. “I meant sleep-wise.”

“Oh, that. I slept most of the day, remember?”

“I wasn’t sure,” I say. “After all, I was sleeping too. Remember?”

I came home at seven-thirty this morning to find Alex sitting on my front stoop. Actually, if Gunner hadn’t been walking me home, I might not have gotten close enough to realize it was Alex. Lurking on someone’s front stoop is just creepy.

I think Alex figured that out though.

“I’m sorry,” he said, standing up. “I… was thinking of you and missing you a bit, to be honest, and it occurred to me that I needn’t merely think about you and miss you anymore. I could get on an airplane and come see you.” He looked from me to Gunner and back again. “I should have called.”

“You’re fine,” I said, taking his hand.

He kissed me.

Gunner cleared his throat.

“Umm… Gunner, this is Alex,” I said. “Alex, Gunner. Gunner, Alex.”

“Hey,” said Gunner, shaking Alex’s hand. “It’s good to meet you. I feel like I should’ve had a speech prepared about what a lucky guy you are and all that.”

Alex smiled. “I’m aware, believe me.”

“Okay,” I said. “This is just getting embarrassing.” I gave Gunner a quick hug. “Thanks for walking me home. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Any time.” He winked at me and nodded at Alex. “Later.”

“Later,” repeated Alex. “He seems nice,” he said once Gunner was out of ear-shot.

“I have a pretty strict ‘No assholes’ dating policy,” I said, unlocking my door.

Alex followed me up the two flights of narrow stairs to my attic apartment.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“I grabbed something at the airport. Or were you talking to her?” Alex gestured at Lola who was just now coming into the kitchen to investigate the curious phenomenon of me actually coming home at the same time I always come home.

“Him,” I corrected, scooping Lola up and giving him a cuddle. “And I know _he_ _’s_ hungry.” Lola head-butted me in the chin. “Yes, your majesty. I’m on it.”

I got some wet food from the fridge and put a couple tablespoons into Lola’s bowl. He still had plenty of crunchies, but I changed his water because if I don’t change it at least twice a day, he starts drinking from the toilet.

Alex sat down in one of the chrome-and-turquoise-vinyl kitchen chairs. This apartment was created some time in the Forties, (although the house itself is much older) and the kitchen appliances, cupboards, and linoleum floor haven’t been changed since. Not that I’m complaining. Well, maybe a little. The stove is great — they really _don’t_ make them like they used to — but a fridge with no shelves in the door is a pain in the ass. The point is, I kept everything in this room very mid-century casual — mostly because it was cheap and the look already dominated the space anyway.

“This is very inviting — homely,” he said.

“Thanks. My decorator will be pleased to hear it.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. She’ll probably be moved to suck your cock after a compliment like that.”

He pulled me into his lap.

“In that case,” he said, “may I add that I love the use of vintage textiles?”

And, well, it went on in that vein for a few more minutes before we ended up in my “Moroccan”-on-a-shoestring bedroom. (I got a really good deal on some pinky-purple sari fabric, and there was this perforated metal lamp that had been screaming at me from the window of a resale shop I walked by every day. More pillows than were strictly necessary may have found their way in as well, although after witnessing whatever the hell happened to Frank’s guest house, I wouldn’t say that the amount is _truly_ excessive.)

Afterward, as we were dozing off, Lola came in and sniffed Alex’s ear before deciding that Alex was acceptable, settling down between us, and purring himself to sleep.

It was almost five when we woke up and made love again. By the time we were actually out of bed, everybody was hungry. I made spaghetti Bolognese with some sauce I had in my freezer and gave Lola a couple more spoonfuls of cat food.

I was lucky I had something that coherent left. I’d been trying to get the freezer and the pantry cleaned out, so I’d been cobbling together weird meals like leftover sweet-and-sour shrimp with slightly freezer-burned carrots on couscous.

Alex asked me what my plans were for the day, and I told him, “Packing.”

And that’s what we’ve been doing ever since.

With Alex here to help me — and to keep me from getting too distracted — it’s been going much more quickly than I’d expected. It’s been going faster than I’d hoped, to be honest.

I tape up the box I’ve been working on and write “Books — storage” on it with the sharpie I have in my overalls pocket.

Lola pauses in his mission to investigate and rub against every box to focus on rubbing against my ankles for a minute.

I pick him up for a cuddle, since I know he’ll give me no peace if I don’t. I scritch him under the chin and tell him he’s got nothing to worry about.

“It’s a big change for him,” I say, letting him jump back down onto the floor.

“Not just for him,” says Alex.

“I’m looking forward to it though.”

“That’s good to hear. Now that I’ve seen where you live, I feel a bit guilty about taking you away from it. You’ve built yourself quite a little sanctuary here.”

I look at my living room. Unlike the other rooms, there’s no real rhyme or reason to it. If I were to assign it a look, I’d call it “eclectic library.” The walls, where they’re not covered in art or bookshelves, are dark green with dark gold metallic paint dabbed over it with a crunkled-up rag. The shelves are walnut-finish flat-pack made to look like built-ins with some walnut-stained trim pieces. There’s a scroll-y “antique bronze” futon with a burnt-orange cushion, and there’s a purple wingback chair that I keep meaning to replace. Kept meaning to replace.

My office is in a closet. I don’t know why the only closet in the place was in the living room, but I’ve seen weirder. In one apartment I looked at, the only access to the bedroom was through the bathroom. Anyway, I partitioned off a little alcove in my bedroom for my clothes, and re-purposed the actual closet for writing and generally fucking around on my computer. A desk-height shelf runs the length of it. There’s a filing cabinet under one end, and a bulletin board and the picture frame with Fred’s photos hang above it. I stenciled the bi-fold doors with an Art Nouveau poppy motif.

I am so not getting my deposit back.

“I have a tendency to nest wherever I am,” I say. “And I’ve been here awhile. I’ll nest wherever we end up too. I hope you’re prepared for it.”

Pretty much every person Alex and I know has taken a vote and decided that it’s unacceptable for me to live in Alex’s current neighborhood.

“It’s not acceptable that _Alex_ lives there,” said Gwen.

So I’ll be staying at the guest house until he finds something else. Which shouldn’t take too long. Alex is already signed on for _Galaxy Quest: The Adventure Continues_ , so money won’t be a huge problem. For Alex.

I try not to worry about finding a job.

Not that I’m any more ready to take on half a mortgage than I am to get married just yet, but I don’t want to be dead weight, you know?

Focus on the immediate task, Mary Sue.

I unfold another book box and start filling it.

“I rather like your sensibilities,” says Alex. “Although the bedroom may be a bit… much.”

“Perhaps you prefer ivory and cream?” I ask. “Lots of flounces and lace?

“Uh… no.”

“Well, I’ve enjoyed Rudolph Valentino’s boudoir for five years. I’m probably ready for something new.”

I put a few more books into the box, tape it shut, mark it, and start on another.

“I hope you’ll feel at home in California as well.”

Ah. There it is.

“This was my home,” I tell him. “I loved it here. It was exactly what I needed, and I made a life here that I was very happy with. But I have to say, when I got back last week, it felt weird — like it had been empty too long. Like my childhood bedroom felt when I came home from college. And that feeling hasn’t gone away. It’s grown. Even Kalamazoo feels strange to me. I don’t belong here anymore.

“Even if California wouldn’t be my first choice of places to live, it still feels more like home now. Because you’ll be there, and because I won’t have to lie to everyone.”

“Lie to everyone? About what happened? About why you’re leaving?” he asks.

I nod. “I guess it doesn’t really make sense,” I say. “I lied so much and kept so many secrets while I was busy saving the world and various parts of the galaxy, but it’s the lies I’ve had to tell this week that really bother me, even though I carefully crafted them to be as close to the truth as possible. I keep thinking that it’ll be easier when I can be around people who don’t think I’ve simply been away for an extended weekend — people who know that I’ve just been through the best and most terrifying year of my life. I don’t know. It kind of feels like I’m trying to gaslight myself?”

Alex smiles at me. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I suppose you do.”

“So what have you been telling people?” he asks.

“I tell them that I went to Lake Tahoe and house-sat for Mi-Na ‘a few years ago.’ I tell them it was a spur-of-the-moment thing that I decided to do after their original housesitters canceled on them at the last minute. Unfortunately, pretty much every person in my life knows I was right here in Kalamazo working at the coffee shop during the winter we spent together at Lake Tahoe. However, the year before _that_ I was working at a ski resort up north, and people are used to me being vague on dates.

“Anyway, I say I met you while you were also staying at Lake Tahoe, and we hit it off, but you had your career in California. You asked me to come live with you, but I had no savings or anything at the time, and I didn’t want to be a burden, so we broke it off. We met up again at Quest Con 18, and the spark was still there. We realized that we wanted to be together, and I’m in a better place financially, so I decided to take a chance, and now I’m moving to California to be with you.

“My family and friends think I’m a little nutty, but not as nutty as they’d think I am if I were to tell them that I was moving in with you after knowing you for just two days. And, actually The Lie is closer to the truth than telling them that I fell in love with you over the weekend.

“But I had to tell Mi-Na the real truth so she’d back me up if anyone asked.”

“How did you convince her that you’d been time-traveling?” he asks.

“I’d taken some pictures at the cabin with a camera that hasn’t been released yet. And I knew the details of a really involved dream Mi-Na had about Reno and a car trip to Las Vegas to meet Fred Kwan.”

“That was fortunate.”

“No kidding,” I say. “I thought for sure I’d have to get Laliari involved.”

“And how is everyone taking it? Besides thinking you’re a bit loony?”

“My mom is torn between being dazzled by your celebrity and worrying that you’ll introduce me to a life of drug-fueled orgies or whatever shenanigans she imagines Hollywood types get up to. My dad’s… Honestly, it’s hard to tell with my dad. He’s alright, I guess. Most of my friends are excited for me. Of course they don’t know that the ‘big adventure’ part is over with now… I sincerely hope.

“Sean wished me well and told me to let him know if I change my mind. He’s right next door in Seattle, mind you, if I should ever need to up and leave your ass.”

“I’ll consider myself warned,” says Alex.

“Gunner says he’s happy for me…”

Gunner showed up at my apartment about half an hour after I got home on Wednesday. I was lying on the futon with Lola purring away on my chest. I had my headphones on, listening to David Bowie, so I was a bit startled when Gunner was suddenly looming over me.

I uh… screamed a little and pulled off my headphones.

“Jesus, Gunner! You trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Brought your key back,” he said, holding up the keyring. “How was I to know you’d be trying to blow out your eardrums? What’ve you got that thing set to, anyway?” He scowled at my stereo.

“It’s barely three-quarters of the way to full-blast.” I clicked my nails against the headphones. “They’re noise-canceling,” I said.

“Nice.” He sat in the wingback chair and picked up the empty jewel case. “’ _Ziggy Stardust_ ,’ huh?”

He leaned closer to me so that he could hear what I was listening to.

“Well, it can’t be too terrible,” he said. “If you were really sad, it would be ‘Rock and Roll Suicide.’ When you’re happy, it’s ‘Suffragette City.’ ‘Lady Stardust’ could go either way.”

“What can’t be too terrible?” I asked as I sat up, knowing damn well what he was talking about.

“Whatever it is that has you lying on the couch, hugging the cat.”

“Oh, that.”

So I proceeded to tell him The Lie.

It was not fun.

He got up and sat beside me on the futon. He took my hand.

“A couple of times,” he said, “we’ve said, ‘I love you.’ I meant it, and I think you did too, and that’s why it was hard for you to tell me this, and that’s why it hurts me to hear it. But you wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t met someone… exceptional.”

I blushed. I couldn’t say it, but I nodded.

“I’m not going to give you shit for falling in love, Mary Sue. For one thing, that would be stupendously hypocritical of me.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“If we can’t be lovers anymore, then we can’t. But Alexander Dane doesn’t get to corner the market on being your friend, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said.

“Good.” Gunner stood up, took my CD out of the stereo, and put it back in its jewel case. “I’m going to go listen to ‘Rock and Roll Suicide’ a few hundred times. I’ll bring this back tomorrow, and we’ll figure out where we go from here.”

I was, you know, crying and laughing at the same time.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll do that.”

“He and I are still friends,” I tell Alex.

“And the other one? Trent?”

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly.

“That… didn’t go so well,” I say.

I tried for three days to get in touch with Trent and talk to him, but he wasn’t answering or returning calls or IMs. I finally just sent him an email with The Lie. He was at my place less than an hour after I hit “Send.”

“You’re breaking up with me in an email?” he asked as soon as I let him in.

“It seemed nicer than just ignoring you. You haven’t answered any of my messages.”

“I was at an academic conference all week. I just got back this morning. That’s why I had to get Gunner to feed Lola.”

I could remember when he’d message me every night from a work conference or when I’d be the first person he’d call the minute he got home.

Hell, I could remember when he’d write that sort of thing on my calendar so that I wouldn’t forget that it was coming up.

But, you know, whatever.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t aware you had a conference, and I didn’t know how else to contact you. This isn’t how I wanted to do this, but I thought it was wrong to leave you in the dark.”

“You didn’t even mention his name, Mary Sue. That’s not exactly enlightening.”

Oh.

“Is it someone I know?” he asked.

“It’s Alexander Dane,” I said.

“Alexander Dane?! You had an affair with _Dr. Lazarus_?”

“I had… ‘an affair’ with Alex. Dr. Lazarus is—”

“Yeah, I know — not real.”

Trent paced the kitchen for a second.

“This was in… 1991?” he asks.

I nod, not that he’s actually pausing for confirmation.

“You haven’t seen or spoken with him since, despite attending an event that he’s at every year, and now you’ve renewed your… relationship over one weekend, so you’re moving to California?”

“That about sums it up,” I said. Because what was the point? I’d never had to defend myself to Trent before, why should I start now?

“Does he know about your _hobbies_?”

“My fic, you mean? He’s read it.”

“Well, that’s great.” I mean, it didn’t _sound_ great.

“What do you want from me?” I asked. “You’ve been pulling away from me for over a year now. If you don’t want me, why should you care that I’m leaving?”

“Because…” He started pacing again. “Did you even think about me? Did you even once hesitate when you said you’d move to fucking California, knowing that I still care about you?”

Trent almost never swears.

“Here’s the thing, Trent. I didn’t know. I assumed after you stopped coming here, after you stopped sleeping in my bed, after you stopped being affectionate with me, that you _didn’t_ love me anymore.”

“You needed proof?”

“Yeah!” I said. “You can’t just fuck off and never contact me and expect that I somehow know you’re loving me from the next county!”

“Way to trust me,” he said.

I shook my head. “You’re the one who doesn’t trust _me_. Something’s been bugging you and you won’t tell me what it is. You’ve never even given me a chance to _try_ and fix it.”

Somehow, that was the pin that pricked his balloon. His anger just seemed to evaporate.

“Maybe you aren’t the one who’s broken,” he said.

I had no idea what to do with that.

And he looked so sad and… defeated.

“How did this happen?” I asked. “I thought we were good together. How could it just… fall apart like this? Why wouldn’t you talk to me?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” He turned, went to the door, and opened it. Over his shoulder, he said, “I really do hope that you’ll be happy.”

And he left.

And I alternated between feeling guilty and feeling angry for a couple hours before heading off to the bakery for another night of training my replacement.

“Everything was amazing for four and a half years,” I say. “Then, _poof_. It just went to hell.”

“Was it?” asks Alex. “Amazing?”

“I thought it was. I was very happy with Trent. And I _thought_ he was happy… until he suddenly wasn’t.”

“I don’t doubt that you were happy. But I wonder why you weren’t living with him. You’re willing to move in with me after a subjective four months, but you were content to keep your own place with Trent.”

“Our situation’s different,” I say. “I have to move if I want to see you, and rents in L.A….”

“Frank and Letitia would let you stay at the guest house indefinitely, and you know it.”

I mean, he’s not wrong.

If Alex were living in Kalamazoo, sooner or later I’d want to live with him, and rent wouldn’t really be a factor.

“Every relationship is different,” I say. “But it’s true that you’re the only person I can think of that I want to wake up with every morning.”

 

 

Sunday June 4, 2000 — L.A.

 

“So you’ve been doing this every year since…?” asks Alex, passing the joint to Cece on his left.

“Oh, since the beginning,” says Cece. She takes a toke, and passes the joint to her left. Shondra takes it from her.

“It was Quest Con 2,” says Shondra. “I’m guilty of a lot of things, but contributing to the delinquency of a minor isn’t one of them.” She looks at me meaningfully.

“Are you saying I wasn’t a convincing 19-year-old?” I ask.

Shondra passes the joint to Laliari, who takes a tiny careful puff before handing it to Fred. “Oh you were fine, honey. It was Mi-Na who couldn’t keep the story straight.”

“I think she let it spill that you two were in the same class about five or six times,” says Cece.

I hope she’s a better alibi now that I’m depending on her to put me in Lake Tahoe at the end of ‘91 rather than ‘92. Of course, if she screws it up, what’s the worst that can happen? Someone might think that I moved clear across the country to shack up with someone I spent one whole weekend with? The longer Alex and I are together, the less anyone cares about how it began.

“You know it’s still contributing if you take said minor to a bar and let her order a wine spritzer, right?” I ask.

“Fine,” says Shondra. “We’re terrible influences. Happy?”

“You guys are the best influences,” I say. “I wouldn’t be where I am today without you.”

“Getting high on a rooftop in suburban L.A.?” asks Cece.

“Exactly,” I say.

“I think we owe Fred for that,” says Shondra. “He’s the one who started this grand tradition, and he’s been at every Saturday Night Rooftop Smokeout since.”

“Not last year,” says Cece. “It was just me and Mary Sue last year since _the entire cast_ decided to go AWOL, and you and Darius where ‘too tired.’” She puts air quotes around “too tired.”

Darius waggles his eyebrows at Shondra, and she swats him.

“Didn’t you know?” asks Fred. “You’re co-chair of the SN… uh… RS. Duties include bringing the blanket and presiding over meetings in my absence.”

“There wasn’t a meeting,” I say. “Just me trying to keep Cece from tearing her hair out.”

“Yeah,” says Cece. “The way I see it, you two…” She looks from Fred to Alex. “…owe me for the ulcer you gave me.”

“And just what form should our reparations take?” asks Alex.

“I want a spoiler. Just a little one so that I can feel all superior.”

“I’ve told you,” says Fred. “Nobody tells us anything.”

“I prefer not to know,” says Alex.

“Come on, you guys! One of you must know something about next season!”

They both point to me.

“Way to throw me under the bus,” I say.

“It’s true,” says Fred. “The only people who know anything about next season are Frank and the writers.”

One of which is yours truly. Frank and Elliot ambushed me practically right off the plane.

“Sorry we can’t give you time to settle in, kiddo,” said Frank. “Production starts tomorrow, and we’ve got three scripts besides the pilot.”

“And those scripts are from the old show,” said Elliot. “They need major rework.”

“We’ve farmed out a few, but we need more brains in the writers’ room,” said Frank.

“You know the show,” said Elliot. “I’ve read your fanfiction, so I know you know the characters.”

“You’ve read my fic?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

“I thought the dialog was strong,” said Frank. “The action sequences could use some work.”

“Thanks?”

“The point is,” said Elliot, “you know how to write the characters. You’ve had some practice with scripts. You can learn the rest on the fly.”

“Except for Ros, and she’s busy, I can’t think of anyone we can just toss in and expect them to swim as well as I believe you can,” said Frank.

Well, when he asks like that…

“Okay,” I said.

I mean, I needed a job, right?

Except it’s one more thing I have to lie about.

“Oh, I think we all know that nobody gets secrets out of Mary Sue,” says Cece. “Secrets like — ‘I met Elliot Spiegel years ago and he’d read all of my fic and loved it and even showed it to Frank Ross who was very impressed…’”

Yup, that’s the lie.

“…or ‘I was once at a New Year’s Eve party given by Amber Joie…’”

Amber was at con this year, and she obviously hasn’t been informed that I was a time traveler. She and Cece got talking. Lucky for me she’s as vague about dates as I am.

“…or ‘I spent three months in Lake Tahoe with Alexander Dane.’ If she didn’t ever drop even the slightest hint about any of that, she sure as shootin’ ain’t gonna tell us if Tawny’s going to stay on the _Protector_ or move to Dezap with Admiral Brannigan.”

Please, like Tawny would last eight minutes on a planet with no electronic devices.

“Hey, I was on that roof when everyone else had abandoned you,” I remind Cece.

“What about ‘I wouldn’t be where I am today without you?’” asks Cece, trying to look wounded.

“I brought the weed,” I say. “I don’t owe you jack.”

“And fine weed it is too,” says Fred. “Or maybe it’s just because it’s the first I’ve had in months.”

“You’re kidding me!” says Shondra.

“Nope,” says Fred. “I don’t smoke while we’re filming, and after that I was… visiting Jane’s family.”

He means helping Laliari and the other Thermians rescue a group of dissidents from what’s left of the Sarris Dominion.

I know, I was there.

Laliari felt that they could use the services of an expert liar. I explained that actors are expert liars, but she insisted that they needed someone who didn’t just tell good lies but who could make them up, as well. Alex was not too happy about it, and after his last gig as the _Protector_ _’_ s Science Officer, I can’t say that I blame him.

“Look at it this way,” I told him. “At least they don’t expect you to sleep on spikes when you have me in your quarters.”

The Thermians were great. Laliari had turned in a full report of my adventures in time travel, and the Thermians had decided that fiction writers are the good kind of liar. They pestered me very sweetly for new and amusing lies. Mathesar had even read my mystery story. It took me awhile to convince him that Human genitals behave pretty much the way I described them. This led to a discussion of Thermian sexuality, and let’s just say that I might have a new kink or two. So might Mathesar, for that matter.

“Burning mind-altering substances is prohibited on the sh— uh… in their… house,” says Laliari.

“Old fashioned types,” says Darius, nodding. “My parents were the same way.”

After that, the conversation turns to weird childhood reminiscences, and I start to tune out, lulled by the familiar cadences and timbres of my friends’ voices and leaning against Alex with his arm draped over me.

I’m not sure what they talk about or for how long, but eventually I hear Shondra say that it’s time for bed.

“The baby’s already half asleep,” she says.

“I heard that,” I say.

But she’s right. I’m done for the night.

So we all get to our feet, and there are hugs goodnight.

We leave in ones and twos so as not to attract attention. Shondra and Darius go first, then Cece. I’m about to leave with Alex, when Fred puts a hand on my arm.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks. “Alone?”

“Sure,” I say.

Alex offers Laliari his arm. “I’ll walk you to your room?” he asks her.

She nods and takes his hand. Alex bends and kisses my cheek, and then he and Laliari leave.

Fred offers me his hand, and we walk over to another part of the roof — farther away from the access door and ventilation fans.

We stand there for a moment, looking out at the skyline.

“How do you manage to come up here, after what you saw?” asks Fred.

“After the fourth time trip?” I ask.

He nods.

We’ve never talked about this. Neither he nor Laliari have ever brought it up, and I assumed they didn’t remember.

“It’s dreamlike to me now,” I say. “Like after the second trip. I don’t remember the… trauma… directly. I remember the effects though.”

What I mean by that is I still have nightmares sometimes.

“Do you and Laliari remember?” I ask.

“Laliari doesn’t. She thinks it’s because she was never really part of that timeline. I think she’s right. I don’t remember anything until the point when I left the bubble.”

I turn to look at him.

“Fred…” I can’t think of anything to say. He _died_. Does he remember that?

“The Accelerator recorded the event, but you and I are the only ones who remember witnessing it,” he says.

We’re the only people who saw the world end.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

I mean, I wouldn’t be standing here if he didn’t want to talk about it, right?

“I remember standing in the hallway and thinking that if I wanted to see Laliari again, I needed to get that transmission from the Archive. I had a device. She’d showed me how to use it. There was dust and people screaming and loud crashes. I just tuned it out — did what I was supposed to do. One step at a time.

“When I finished, I looked up, and it was like the wall in front of me was… disintegrating. I guess it was actually.” Fred smiles a little, resting his hand on the back of his neck.

“What happened next?” I prompt him.

“There was light and… pain… like fire… only coming from inside me. And then nothing. I think I could think, but there wasn’t anything to see or feel or hear or… breathe… but I didn’t know how to breathe anyway.

“I don’t know. It was over so fast. I saw light again, and it was you. You were sparkling, and the room was there, and Laliari had my hand, and then we were sparkling too.”

Fred looks at me.

“It’s um… it’s just weird, you know? Living through something that big, and nobody else even saw it.”

I nod. Tell me about it.

Yeah, Mary Sue. He just did.

So I tell him about the room floating above the rubble and the missing L.A. skyline and trying to stay brave for Laliari who was trying to stay brave for me.

“She shook so hard when she told me you’d left,” I say. “I promised her I’d get you back.”

“And you did.” He smiles.

“I was so afraid that I wouldn’t.”

Fred smiles some more, nodding. “But you did.”

 

 

Sunday, September 22, 2002 — Pasadena

 

As soon as the front door is shut, Alex has me pressed against it, kissing me like my lips are necessary to his continued metabolic function. He undoes his tie, loosens the top couple of buttons on his shirt, and pulls off the coat of his tux while keeping his mouth pressed to mine. Once he’s tossed the jacket aside, he puts his hands against my shoulders and strokes down my arms. He fills his hands with my breasts, and kisses me and kisses me.

Finally, he remembers oxygen and our mutual need for it. He touches his forehead to mine, breathing hard and still caressing me through the pale pink silk of my one and only designer dress.

“Please tell me you’re not too tired to fuck,” says Alex.

“Well, now that you mention it, it _has_ been a long day,” I tease.

He growls at me and flicks my nipple. I press my mouth to his again, throwing an arm around his neck.

He rolls my nipple between his middle finger and thumb until I whimper.

“Okay,” I say against his mouth.

He breaks away to smirk at me.

“Damn, Mr. Dane. If I’d known that winning an Emmy would get you this hot, I would’ve done it years ago.”

“If I’d known that I could get you into a dress like that just by walking you down a red carpet, I’d have died years ago.”

We were both nominated this year for “Lazarus’ Heart.” Me for writing it, and Alex for the acting. Jason was also nominated, but I’m the only one hauling home a statuette tonight.

And all I had to do was kill one of the most beloved characters on TV.

It was Alex’s idea.

“It’s time to leave them wanting more,” he’d said.

And, you know, other offers were being made.

But _GQ: TAC_ wasn’t showing any signs of ending soon.

“I love Lazarus,” he said, “but not enough to play him, and only him, for the rest of my life.”

And I love Alex, so I sat down and wrote a two-parter.

In the first part, the _Protector_ encounters Sedna, a world that has apparently been devastated by a global war — every city but one has been bombed and burned to the ground, but that one remaining city is perfectly intact. Lazarus, Taggart, Ingersol, and Chen take a surface pod down. They wander for a bit, and soon encounter an inhabitant — a beautiful young woman who calls herself Reyann. She tells them that a plague wiped out the entire population of the planet in the course of a few years, but she doesn’t remember much because she was just a kid. She has no idea how she survived.

Ingersol finds himself drawn to the poor woman (of course), they make out a little, and he convinces Taggart that they need to take her with them when they leave. Afterward, Taggart and Lazarus argue. Lazarus says that they have no idea of the nature of the disease that killed everyone on this planet or if it’s still active. Taggart says they can’t just leave her there alone. Chen interrupts them to say that he’s found a supercomputer which is stored beneath the city. It’s still running, and it seems to contain some kind of record of what happened here.

They go check it out and discover that the bombed-out cities were the result of people trying to destroy the disease before it could spread further, but it was already too late. The only city to “survive” was this one because it was a center for scientific research, and the inhabitants realized the hopeless nature of the situation before anyone else. They uploaded their consciousnesses into their supercomputer and died, leaving the cleaning drones to dispose of their bodies. Eventually, the scientists inside the computer realized that the disease was caused by a virus manufactured by an enemy faction — the Larasai — who also created a bio-engineered lifeform to carry the virus to their enemies. Cue the dramatic music as a picture of Reyann pops up on the monitor.

Then Ingersol starts coughing.

They quickly ascertain that Roc’s a goner, and Chen, then Taggart, start coughing too. Lazarus begins working on a cure. Taggart and Ingersol find Reyann and confront her. She admits that when she discovered her purpose and realized she could never touch anyone without killing them, she went mad and escaped the laboratory she had been kept in. She willfully traveled to every part of Sedna in order to infect as many as possible. Ingersol is a little hurt at this. She begs his forgiveness, and says that she never expected that an alien would also be susceptible to the disease, but he’s pretty over her now. She leaves, sobbing. Taggart calls the ship and tells Tawny (now Lt. Cmdr. Madison) the situation. Under no circumstance is anyone to come down to the planet, yada yada. If she doesn’t hear from them again, take the _Protector_ directly to Starbase Ceti.

Meanwhile, Lazarus is feeling just fine as he works in the conveniently intact lab. We have some scenes of Lazarus doing things with brightly-colored liquids in beakers while the others become weaker and weaker. Finally, Lazarus _thinks_ he has a cure, but there isn’t time to test it thoroughly, and it could be deadly if he’s wrong. He takes the first dose and doesn’t keel over, but since he’s a Mak’Tar, that’s no guarantee that the Humans won’t. Taggart volunteers to take it first, but Chen insists that the ship needs her Commander more than her First Engineer (which is highly debatable, but Chen’s being noble). Lazarus reluctantly sides with Chen and gives him a thick orange substance to drink. Chen clutches his stomach and falls to the floor. After the commercial break, Lazarus and Taggart are kneeling next to him with highly concerned expressions when Chen’s eyes flutter open. He’s fine and a scan reveals that the virus is no longer in his system. Ingersol and Taggart take their medicine too.

At that moment, Reyann returns and wrests a nebulizer from a still-weakened Chen. She aims at Ingersol and Taggart and they have a little standoff where she does some more crying and screaming about how lonely she’s been and how all the Sednai deserved to die for what they did to her. Once she gets really monologuing, Lazarus jumps to knock the nebulizer out of her hand. The nebulizer goes off, hitting Lazarus in the heart, just as Taggart shoots Reyann with his own nebulizer, killing her.

Dun-dun-dun!

In part two, Lazarus is dying of the wound to his heart. Taggart consults with the doctor (the medical one – Dr. Kim) and they decide that the best thing to do is take Lazarus to the nearest space station.

So then the Mank’Nar show up. They’re intent on looting Sedna and aren’t buying for a second that there’s a terrible disease down there. Taggart tries to convince them to at least take some of the vaccine, so that they don’t go spreading plague around the galaxy. The Mank’Nar don’t believe in vaccines. Disease is Q’ropuk’s way of culling the weak.

While this tense standoff is happening, Lazarus and the medical team discuss his options. The organ replicator will take too long to grow a new heart, and the ship doesn’t have any mechanical replacements suitable for a Mak’Tar. So Chen gets to work on one.

For about half an hour, the scenes bounce back and forth between Taggart attempting diplomacy with the Mank’Nar (The NSEA established a “fragile peace” with them eight years ago.), Chen feverishly trying to create a heart for Lazarus, and Lazarus lying in sickbay, arguing with the doctor while simultaneously trying to find proof that the disease is also fatal to Mank’Nar, since the Mank’Nar are pretty unconcerned with viruses that only kill other species.

Finally, Lazarus finds the proof — (insert techno-jargon bullshit _deus e_ _x_ _machina_ here). Tawny transmits it directly to the Mank’Nar and the Mank’Nar decide to leave.

Taggart gets to the sickbay just in time to see Lazarus, on a bed and hooked to a machine that Chen cobbled together in order to keep Lazarus’s blood circulating. Chen looks up sadly. He touches Lazarus’s arm and says, “He’s here, Doctor.”

Taggart, realizing that his best friend is dying, sits beside the bed and takes his hand.

(This is good. This is the clip they played tonight at the awards ceremony.)

“Peter,” says Lazarus. “The Mank’Nar? I assume they…” He gasps a little at the pain. “… they saw the folly of their intentions?”

“Yeah,” says Taggart. “Seems they decided that Q’ropuk sometimes culls the weak by culling the stupid.”

Lazarus chuckles for a moment before biting back the pain again.

“Doc, I...”

“Please, Peter. The volvac sac — take it to Sha’ree. Tell her… Tell her I’m sorry that I never came back. Tell her she’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“I will, Doc. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Lazarus smiles softly yet stoically.

“You’re the brains of this operation, Lazarus. What am I going to do without you?”

“I’m sorry, old friend,” says Lazarus. “I wish I could have remained… by your side.”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Taggart, swallowing. “I’d give you my own heart, if I could.”

“I know you would — _tor de_ _’ki tor_.” Lazarus closes his eyes.

“No! Lazarus!”

Chen’s contraption whirs to a stop.

Taggart looks at Chen, who just stares back at him in shock.

Mechanically, Taggart flips open his vox and tells Laredo to lay in a course for New Tev’Meck.

(The clip ends here, by the way.)

Taggart wanders around his quarters, emoting and ugly crying for a bit before Dr. Kim calls him on his vox to ask how long it will take to get to New Tev’Meck. Taggart tells her that it’s nearly a week’s journey from where they are currently. She tells him that the fetus will start to deteriorate after three days.

In sickbay Taggart, Chen, and the doctor brainstorm ways to save the fetus and finally Peter asks if the entire thing could be grown in an organ replication tank. The doctor says yes, but they wouldn’t end up with a baby, but a full-grown Mak’Tar with an adult’s brain and a baby’s mind. It’s been done before, but the mind never develops.

“What if we put memories into that brain?” asks Chen. “Just download a whole personality to it?”

He explains in a flashback that he and Tawny had theorized that they could use one of the Sednai’s devices to “record” a consciousness and store it in the ship’s computer. Once he realized he was dying, Lazarus wanted to attempt it. If successful, he’d asked Chen to leave him with the other scientists on Sedna. The device had been coupled to the pump that was circulating Lazarus’s blood. Chen’s pretty sure that the device will upload any consciousness that it carries as well.

So they hem and haw for a few minutes about ethics, but you know where this is going. They grow the fetus (which _happens_ to be female) and stuff Lazarus’s memories and whatnot into it. And voilà — Lazarus rises from the dead as a woman, and we have a couple dozen interesting roads to explore as everyone spends the rest of the season adjusting to all of this in between aliens of the week.

The fandom freaked out in fairly predictable ways, and Alex was free to pursue other roles.

And the episode was nominated for three Emmys.

And I had to buy a fancy dress.

Gwen took me shopping. An Emmy nom for writing was not going to get designers falling all over themselves to dress me. It wasn’t even going to get them notice my existence.

On the other hand, people would be watching Alex, and I didn’t want to be frumpy.

At about the twenty-third shop, I found a pale pink silk slip dress. Actually, I found a lot of pale pink silk slip dresses at every shop. They were a thing, I guess. This one was structured enough up top for me to wear a bra under it though. And it was my size, mostly. Once it was altered, I looked pretty damn good, I thought.

Well, I wasn’t going to make the “best dressed” list, but I figured I wouldn’t end up on the “worst dressed” either.

And I figured it would get Alex’s attention. Which it did. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Apparently, he couldn’t wait to get his hands _on_ it either.

Which maybe was the plan all along.

“You know,” I say. “I’ve got no problem with you fucking me through this door…”

“Good,” he says and kisses me again, hard and insistent, his teeth digging a little into my lower lip.

I squirm against him. “…but I don’t want to drop my Emmy.”

“Better hold it tight with both hands then.” He cocks his eyebrow, challenging me to play with him.

I grin and wrap my other hand around the statuette.

He places his hand around the middle of the award and raises it — and my hands with it — high above my head.

“Don’t let go,” he warns me, his voice gone low and menacing.

I shiver and curl my fingers tighter around the statuette.

“Good girl.”

He reaches behind me and lowers the zipper on my dress just enough to find the hooks of my strapless bra. He undoes them with a quick squeeze, and pulls the garment off from under the top of my dress. I’m already aroused enough that the scrape against my nipples sends bliss singing along my nerves.

Alex puts his mouth next to my ear. “You’ve been teasing me all night — letting that dress brush across my hand when we walked, pressing your belly against my cock when we danced.”

Guilty as charged.

“But there’s a price to pay, isn’t there?”

God, I hope so.

“Because I’ll bet you haven’t stopped thinking about sex for longer than 15 minutes tonight.”

Well, remembering my acceptance speech knocked it out of my head for a hot second.

“And now you’re just about ready to beg me to fuck you, hmm?”

“Alex…” I whine.

“Yes?” he asks, all innocence.

“C’mon.”

“’C’mon’ is not ‘please.’” He puts his free hand into the bodice of my dress and draws my breast out of it just far enough that my nipple clears the low neckline. He does the same to my other breast. “Perhaps you need some more persuasion.”

Still holding the Emmy above my head, Alex stoops just low enough to push my breast higher with his free hand and take my nipple into his mouth. He has impressive reach.

And way too much practice at this.

He knows exactly how hard to suck and how softly to bite and how quickly to tongue my nipple in order to take me to the point where I want it to hurt.

He switches to my other breast, engulfing that nipple in sweetness and warmth while he takes the one he just abandoned between his thumb and middle finger and gives it a quick hard twist, letting it slide, wet and slippery from his grasp.

I wail, trying to press my breast more firmly against his mouth. He peeks up at me and chuckles around my nipple before closing his eyes and concentrating on getting the same response again.

And I want to beg, I do. But not as much as want the luxury of that warm honey — that sweet sunshine spreading through my flesh.

Even when he’s left that nipple as dark and throbbing as the first, I don’t beg.

“Not yet?” he asks.

He crowds me against the door, squashing my aching breasts against the smooth twill fabric of his shirt.

And I would beg, but now I want to know what he has planned next.

I wriggle against him, my awareness of his body pressing mine heightened by the fact that I’m not allowed to touch with my hands.

My mouth however…

I kiss his neck, which is as high as I can reach, and he kisses me, letting me slip my tongue into his mouth to taste him and savor his heat.

I can feel his big hand cupping my mound — his strong fingers tickling the lips of my quim.

It takes a second for me to register that the brushing sensation on my legs is the hem of my skirt being slowly gathered up.

If he weren’t kissing me, I might have said “please” then.

Maybe he realizes that, because he stops kissing me and just watches me instead.

And then he speaks.

“My god, but you’re on fire, love.” He presses his sweeping fingers more firmly to my quim as he continues gathering the fabric of my dress, inch by inch into his hand.

I nod in agreement.

He’s finally reached the hem, and is stroking the satin of my thong.

“Your knickers are positively drenched,” he observes.

No kidding.

He slides his hand into my panties, insinuating his fingers between the lips of my quim.

“Your cunt is _so_ swollen, Mary Sue. So slick. Are you sure you don’t want a hard…” He shoves a finger in. “…thick…” Two fingers. “…cock in here?”

That does it. I close my eyes. “Aaa-llex,” I moan. “Yes, I want it — _pleeaase_.”

“Tell me,” he says, his mouth next to my ear. “Tell me how much you want me to fuck you.”

I clamp my interior muscles around his fingers. “This much,” I say. “Please, Alex. I want your cock.”

“Then come for me.” He curves his fingers against the front of my vagina and cups his palm over my mound, letting me control how much pressure my clit gets.

It doesn’t take long.

He knows my sweet spots.

I let go of the Emmy to wrap my arms around his neck. I clutch him, completely off balance as sharp waves of pleasure wash up my body and I gasp against his shoulder — “Yes, Alex. Please, Alex. Please…”

He gently pulls his fingers from my body and lets my dress fall back into place. I feel him lean to the left, and, when I look, he’s setting the Emmy on the console table near the door.

“Alright?” he asks, putting both arms around me.

“Better than alright,” I say. I stretch up to kiss him, and he obligingly meets me halfway.

I wriggle my hands in between our bodies and undo the button on his pants. I pull down his zipper and palm his cock through the soft cotton of his underwear.

“What are you up to?” he asks. Brilliantly.

“You promised me cock,” I remind him. “I said ‘please’ even.”

He smiles at me, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“So I did,” he replies. He takes my hand and pulls me away from the door. “Come on then.”

“Bed?” I ask.

“Oh, we’re not going to make it that far. That’s all the way upstairs.”

He leads me as far as the living room sofa, where he pulls his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock before sitting.

“Have a seat,” he says, patting his thighs like I’m a cat he wants to coax into a cuddle.

And he’s so sexy like that — with his tie undone and his shirt half-unbuttoned. And with his cock lying, dark and hard, against that expanse of pristine starched cloth.

So naturally, I hike up my skirt, shuck my panties, grab his suspenders for balance, straddle his lap, and position his cock at my entrance.

He puts those big hands of his on my hips and urges me down.

And how can I not slide down over that fat prick, when he’s asking so sweetly?

“Fuck,” he murmurs once I’ve stuffed him as far into my quim as humanly possible.

“My sentiments, exactly,” I say, and I start to move.

“Fuck,” he repeats as he squeezes my ass.

I lean forward and kiss him, feel his muffled cries against my tongue as I suck it into my mouth, answer them with my own.

Alex’s hands roam over my body. He’s beyond being polite about how much he likes this dress and the feel of the silk with my body beneath it.

And honestly? I love it. I love him when he’s forgotten everything but me and his pleasure. I love that I get to know this about him — what he likes and how he looks with his civilized veneer in shambles. I love that I can take him there.

I’m coming again — whining and shivering as it kicks through me like the beat of a drum.

Alex shakes his head a little — the way he does when he doesn’t want it to end, but he’s tipped into the territory of inevitability.

“Fuck,” he says one more time, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me down to meet his final thrust as he comes.

We stay there for a bit. I’m just enjoying Alex being in me and holding me, and the whole warm, languid, loved afterglow thing.

He’s softening though, and eventually he says, “I hope we don’t have to get the sofa cleaned… again.”

I laugh, which probably does nothing to help keep the upholstery safe. I can feel Alex laughing too. I sit up and grab a handful of Kleenex from the side table.

I use it to mop us up as much as possible while I disengage from him. I toss the tissues onto the table and snuggle down into the crook of his arm.

He places his hand on my cheek and tips my head up for a kiss.

He looks so happy.

I am so in love with him.

And I remember for about the eleventy-hundredth time this week that there’s something I’ve been meaning to do.

“Alex?”

“Mmm?” He kisses me again.

“Are you… umm… still… ah…”

His chest shakes with laughter again.

“Out with it,” he says. “What is it you want?”

“You,” I say. “Bonny and buxom in bed and at board, all the days of my life.”

He’s quiet.

Finally, he asks, “You… you know that means ‘obedient,’ right?”

“Did I stutter?”

He pulls me close, takes a deep breath, and says, “Are you serious?”

I sit up and look at him.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, of course I’m serious.” I look around for the embroidered clutch I carried this evening, but I don’t see it.

“Shit! Stay right there,” I say as I yoink my dress back up over my tits. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Barefoot and braless, holding my dress up so that the hem won’t drag on the garage floor, I run out to the car and fetch my purse from where I left it in the pocket of the passenger-side door.

I run back inside and, kneeling on the floor, I dig a little velvet box out of the clutch. I open it and show Alex the ring I bought last week — a dark iron band with gold-filled cracks like you see in pottery that’s been repaired with the _kintsugi_ method.

I straighten my shoulders, and looking him in the eye, I say, “Alexander Dane, will you marry me?”

You know, being as serious as possible.

“Yes,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me back up onto the sofa next to him. “Yes, Mary Sue Forrester. It would be my honor.”

I grin at him stupidly for a second before remembering the ring. I pull it out of the box and put it on Alex’s finger.

Then I kiss him.

“Alex,” I say.

“Yes?”

“Your dick’s still out.”

“You told me not to move.”

So we head upstairs and take a shower.

We bought this little craftsman bungalow because of the enormous shower and the three bedrooms – one for me to write in, one for Alex to… brood in, and one for sleeping.

After we’ve scrubbed off makeup and washed product out of each others’ hair and whatever other bedtime rituals we can find the energy for, we collapse in bed.

Alex pulls me close, curling around my back and wrapping his arms around me, while Lola tries to find a spot to wedge himself in between us.

“You were gorgeous up there, by the way.”

“Up where?” I ask, all innocence. “On your cock?”

“Yes, well, you’re always gorgeous there, but I meant on the stage. I was so proud of you. All night actually. It was a privilege to be on your arm.”

“A-lex!” I bury my face in the crook of his arm. “Too much!”

“Now I get to be married to Emmy-Award-winning writer, Mary Sue Forrester.”

“Where should I put it?” I ask, changing the subject. “I need a spot that’s tastefully low-key, and yet prominent enough that I don’t run the chance of anyone missing it.”

“I keep my Olivier on the bookshelf in my office,” he says.

“Wait.” I roll over a bit and look at him. “You have an Olivier?!”

“You didn’t know?”

“How could I not notice a bust of Olivier?” I ask.

“Well, technically it’s a Society of West End Theatre Award. They didn’t change the name until nineteen-eighty-something when they made it a bust of Sir Laurence. Until then it was a bronze statue of a woman.”

“The girl who might be a mermaid or might be wearing a fishtail skirt?”

“That’s the one,” he says. “You’ve never read the inscription?”

“Obviously not.”

“It was for Richard III.”

“You’re amazing,” I say.

“Look who’s talking,” he replies.

I lay back down with my head on his arm and close my eyes.

Lola finally gives up on his quest to cuddle with both of us and settles against my stomach.

I’m just drifting off when it occurs to me.

“Is that what you went back for — in 1992?”

“Yes,” he says. “I had been considering selling it. It was just a reminder that I wasn’t fulfilling my earlier promise, but when I thought of it possibly being stolen in my absence, I found that I wanted it after all.”

 

 

Tuesday, August 9, 2005 — Edinburgh

 

“You’re back,” I say, stretching a little under the covers and dislodging Lola who stalks grumpily out of the room. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

Alex drops his bag onto the one chair we keep in the bedroom and pulls off his jacket.

“It’s already tomorrow,” he says, sitting on the edge of our ridiculously gothick bed and kissing me. “Happy Birthday.”

“Mmm.” I put a hand on his cheek. “I like my present.”

He turns his head and kisses my palm. “I have a real present for you,” he says.

“You mean I get more than my sexy husband and not dying of heatstroke? I must’ve been a very good girl.”

“The best.” He waggles one eyebrow at me. “So good, in fact, that I have a number of presents for you.”

“Oh my,” I say, sitting up. “Well, lay ‘em on me.”

“First off, M.J. gave me permission to tell you that all of your headcanons about my character are true except for the one about his favorite food being black licorice. It is, in fact, Lancashire hotpot.”

“Lancashire hotpot? Really?”

“Yeah, I don’t buy it either,” he says. “However, you were right about him being in love with the mum.”

“I knew it! He never talks about her!” I crow.

“And I never talk about Olivia Newton-John. That doesn’t mean I’m in love with her.”

“You went to school with Olivia Newton-John?”

“No.”

“Well then. It doesn’t really count, does it?

“I assure you I was at school with a wide variety of women of whom I never speak and for whom I am not carrying a torch.”

I shrug. “Life is never as neat as fiction.”

“I saw Fred and Laliari briefly,” he says. “They’re still sight-seeing the entire earth. Laliari requested that I give this to you.”

He hands me what appears to be a smooth metal pebble the size of my palm. Impulsively, I stroke it. My finger leaves a sparkly train of iridescent colors in its wake.

“What does it do?” I ask.

“According to Laliari, it is very pretty.”

“Well, she’s not wrong.” I set the thing on the bedside table.

“And this is from me,” he says, handing me a small package about the size of a book.

I open it. It looks kind of like a TABLIT.

It takes me a second.

“An e-reader?” I ask.

“Yes. I put all of your favorites that I could find on it — Austen, Le Guin, Simmons, Baum — anyone I could think of.”

“This is so sweet, Alex.” I turn it on. “Oh wow, it’s one of the Paperwhite types! That’s amazing. It looks just like a real book.”

“You like it?”

“I love it. Thank you.” I put my hand on the back of his neck, winding my fingers into the curls there. I pull him closer and kiss him. It’s a sweet kiss, but it lacks the usual fire I’ve come to expect when Alex hasn’t seen me for two and a half weeks — and probably won’t see me after Thursday for another three.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

““I’m tired, and I’ve missed you. And I’m just feeling a bit sorry for myself tonight.”

“Well, I can’t do anything about the self-pity, but if you come to bed, I can probably help with the other two.”

“After you’ve used the loo.”

I laugh. “Yeah, after that.”

While I’m washing my hands, Alex comes into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

I kiss the freckles on his shoulder on my way back to the bedroom, and I see him in the mirror — smiling at me around his toothbrush — as I leave.

Before I get into bed, I straighten out the blankets and the crewelwork spread, and I put Alex’s pillows back where they belong. I tend to build myself a little nest when he’s not here. Alex climbs into bed beside me and snuggles into my side, laying his head on my shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. Sometimes he does, sometimes he wants to brood a bit first.

“I feel guilty about leaving you alone so much,” he says.

Maybe he got the brooding out of the way on the drive here.

“I signed up for that,” I say. “Besides, it gives me time to write.” I’m working on my third Upton Inn Mystery.

“Perhaps… it would be more accurate to say… that I feel guilty because I’m insecure about you… spending so much time alone.”

Okay.

That’s umm…

“Are you afraid that I’m cheating on you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and even.

“What?” He lifts his head to look at me. “No. I worry that you’ll compare your life before me to your life after and decide that it’s… lonely.”

I think about that for a second. “It is — lonely sometimes, I mean. But it was lonely before you, sometimes too.”

“Before, you had others,” he says. “I feel like… I’ve taken you from that and asked you to only be with me, and now I’m absent half the time.”

“It’s not half the time. It’s more like a third of the time, and you’re never more than a five-hour train ride away. I know that’s Outer Mongolia for a Brit, but I come from a state larger than this whole country. The commute really doesn’t bother me.”

I think about that.

“Would you like me to visit you on the set more often?” I ask. “I can do that. I usually write about five hours a day. I can do that on the train — spend a night or two with you and write on the journey home.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not. I’m offering. It would probably be good for me to be in a situation where I can’t raid the kitchen every eight minutes when I have writer’s block. And if all else fails, I have an entire library on my fancy new e-reader.”

I kiss the top of his head.

“I’m sorry, Alex. I always assumed that I’d just be in the way. If I’d known you were _pining_ …”

“Of course I’m pining. What did you think?”

I thought you’d be bored with me a long time ago.

I thought the reality of having me around would have made you realize you were romanticizing my presence.

And even though I know better now, it’s hard not to fall back into my old attitudes.

“I think,” I say, “that you should ask for the things you need, because I don’t always see them.”

“Oh for god’s sake.” He hugs me tighter. “I’ve been feeling guilty that I’ve taken you away from your life — first to live in California, and then to live here — and now I neglect you, and by some miracle you don’t just fall in love with someone else. And to top it off, now you’re taking the responsibility for the whole mess.”

“One,” I say. “I categorically refuse to take responsibility for any _whole_ messes. I might cop to three-quarters of a mess, but never a _whole_ mess. And two — I’ve been in love with other people since we’ve been together.”

Silence.

Then he says, “You never told me that.”

Oh shit. I’m doing the thing again – downplaying stuff that I think will upset my partner.

Just like I did with Trent, although I didn’t see it at the time.

I didn’t really see it until Trent finally told me why he distanced himself from me.

About a week after we’d moved to Britain, I got an email from him. 

> Mary Sue,
> 
> If you don’t want to read this, I understand, but I had to write it. I’ve met someone. Her name is Jenna. She’s great — wicked sense of humor. I kind of think you’d like her. Anyway, I just didn’t feel like I could move forward with her if I didn’t lay some things to rest with you.
> 
> First of all, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was mad and I was hurt and I tried to lay some of the blame on you, but it was me. I know that now, and I’m pretty sure I knew it then. You asked what happened, why I stopped talking to you. I think I owe you an answer.
> 
> Bear with me here.
> 
> I’ve always thought of sex like cake. Most people like cake, some more than others. Some people like different kinds of cake. A few people don’t like cake, and I’m one of them. You were fine with me not liking cake. You just popped out to the bakery and got cake on your own with someone else and I was fine with that.
> 
> It was just cake.
> 
> You didn’t like D&D. You didn’t mind me playing it with my friends. I didn’t mind you having cake with yours.
> 
> Then you wrote that story. And that story wasn’t about cake. It was about sharing an intense physical, emotional, and spiritual experience with someone.
> 
> I tried to tell myself that it was just how that kind of story goes. It’s what your audience expects. They want you to describe cake as if it’s way more than it really is, so you did.
> 
> Then Fred talked about your story, and I realized he understood. It resonated with him. That intense physical, emotional, and spiritual experience wasn’t just fiction. It was real and you couldn’t share it with me – not because I don’t like cake, but because for me, personally, it’s just cake.
> 
> But for you, personally, it’s always something more than cake.
> 
> It killed me to see you with Gunner, and to know that he got it. Even Sean, I thought, probably gets it. It’s more than cake or you wouldn’t want to share it with them.
> 
> You didn’t change. The way I saw you changed. I kept hoping I’d come to terms with it and we could go back to being what we were, but I couldn’t, and I didn’t know how to talk to you about it with making it sound like I was judging you.
> 
> I’m sorry Mary Sue. I should’ve tried harder.
> 
> Please forgive me.
> 
> I’d still like to be your friend.
> 
> Trent

Speaking of taking responsibility for the whole mess.

See, I think I always knew that if Trent understood that I was doing something other than having a little harmless fun with my other dudes, he’d be hurt. So I just didn’t talk about it with him.

And now I’m kind of doing the same with Alex.

“I didn’t want to worry you over something that… didn’t change… us,” I tell him.

“Because you falling in love with someone else has no bearing on our relationship whatsoever,” he says — his voice cold with sarcasm.

“No it doesn’t. As is evidenced by the fact that I am with you and I love you and I’m happy with you.”

“I had a right to know,” he says.

“Maybe I was afraid of how you’d react.”

I can actually hear him sulking.

I sigh.

“Look, Alex — if you had told me that you were perfectly alright with me being with other people, then I might have pursued some of those relationships. Mind you, some were inherently impossible, like the time I fell in love with a gay coworker – no, not _that_ gay coworker – but my point is, if I had pursued some of those relationships, I would still feel the same about you. That’s what being polyamorous is.

“But you aren’t okay with me being with other people, and it’s unimaginable to me that I might fall so hard for someone else that I would want to jeopardize what we have.

“Because what we have truly is precious to me.

“So when it happens, I just enjoy the extra energy while it lasts. Sometimes I even indulge in a nice bout of light melancholy. I don’t resent you – or myself for being this way. It’s just a little hormone storm, and with nothing to feed it, it burns itself out.”

“You still choose to be with me," he says.

“Yes.” Dumbass. “You were with me through the hardest parts of my life, Alex. And some of the best. I couldn’t love you more. Nothing and no one could make me love you less.”

"And you'll tell me next time?"

"Yeah," I say.  "I'll tell you next time."

 

 

Galactic Date — Fucked if I know. It’s Tuesday, January 8, 2008 or thereabouts — Gant Space Station 8

 

“ _You thought you’d get away?” he asks, and I can smell his sickly-sweet scent, like rotting jasmine. “You thought you could just overthrow the entire Sarris Dominion and spend the rest of your life tapping at your keyboard and fucking this asshole?” Gath’Gor jerks his head toward Alex, who’s sprawled across the black sheets of the enormous bed._

“ _Maybe I should send you back to your real husband.”_

“ _Yeah, Mary Sue,” says Kevin, appearing out of nowhere. “Maybe you need a real man.”_

“ _You are unwelcome figments of her imagination. You have no real power,” says a familiar sing-song voice. It’s Mathesar._

“ _Yeah,” I say. “You’re not real. The IRS put you in jail for tax evasion.”_

“ _And who told them all my business?”_

“ _You must leave now,” says Mathesar._

When I wake, I’m disconcerted. In the dream, I was back at Frank’s guest house, but the bed was the one I’m currently lying on. And this bed’s on a real and actual space station.

However, it’s nice to see that Mathesar’s hypnotic suggestions are still working, even if it’s weird to have him show up in my nightmares.

I shimmy across the expanse of the bed and head into the bathroom. It takes a minute to find the facility that was designed to accommodate persons of my basic anatomy, but I finally locate it. At least there’s only three sinks to choose from.

As I wash my hands, I say, “Kevin’s gone. He was never really part of your life. You put him in jail, just like you put Gath’gor in jail. Kevin’s locked up and Gath’gor’s dead.” Mathesar says it reinforces his suggestions if I tell myself this stuff.

On my second day back in Kalamazoo, I reviewed everything I could remember about Kevin’s finances, then I sent an anonymous tip to the IRS. Unsurprisingly, Kevin was pulling much of the same bullshit in this timeline that he had in that other one. I also checked into his marital status. His wife had left him five years ago.

Gath’gor was murdered in a prison on a planet called Frrg.

And I’m here, celebrating my fifth wedding anniversary.

Fred and Laliari gifted us this little vacation. They spent their fifth anniversary here, and they insisted that we should too.

And I have to admit – it’s amazing.

I couldn’t believe it when Fred told me that the place I had described in “Passionate Kisses” really exists. The big blue planet outside is called Chogar, and the moons are Nee’go and Bundum. But the dome and the view are exactly the same.

As I crawl back into bed, I feel a little twinge remembering that Trent had wished he could see a place like this. He would have loved it. Despite how things turned out, I can’t help feeling a little wistful at what, in retrospect, was probably unavoidable.

But even if I could go back and change it, I wouldn’t. And let’s face it, that’s a less remote possibility for me that for most.

Life is messy. So’s love.

And so am I.

I have now, and now is about as close to perfect as it gets, if you ask me.

I have a breathtaking view and I’m with my dude, my husband, my sweetest friend.

I spoon up against Alex and kiss the back of his neck. He takes my hand from his waist and pulls it up to his chest, placing it over his heart.

And holding the only person that I’ve ever wanted to be my one person, I close my eyes on the beautiful planet with the stupid name and fall back to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs!
> 
> Monday, June 7, 1999 — L.A. -- Guns N' Roses -- [Patience](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErvgV4P6Fzc) \-- I listened to this song about a million times while writing this. I think it works here.  
> Tuesday, June 22, 1999 — Kalamazoo -- Hoyt Axton -- [Dela and the Dealer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pN0OBHz_Xmo) \-- Doesn't have much to do with the story. It's just my favorite song to feature the name of my old hometown.  
> David Bowie -- [Lady Stardust](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcKZEOsgvdI)  
> Sunday June 4, 2000 — L.A. -- R.E.M. -- [It's the End of the World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0GFRcFm-aY)  
> Sunday, September 22, 2002 — Pasadena -- INXS -- [Need you Tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrZZfaDp02o) \-- Michael Hutchence , Andrew Farriss -- Another one that was on heavy rotation this year.  
> Tuesday, August 9, 2005 — Edinburgh -- Peg + Cat -- [I Couldn't Love You Any More](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=In72QAQJ1tY) \-- It's just silly and sweet and I stole a line from it.  
> Tuesday, January 8, 2008 or thereabouts — Gant Space Station 8 -- The Beatles -- [Golden Slumbers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcQjM7gV6mI) \-- John Lennon, Paul McCartney


End file.
